


I Burn, I Pine, I Perish

by lahijadelmar



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Blood and Gore, F/M, Fix-It, Forbidden Love, From Sex to Love, Light Bondage, Older Man/Younger Woman, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-02-04 12:46:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 71,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18604804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lahijadelmar/pseuds/lahijadelmar
Summary: Vevynne Lannister, eldest child and only daughter of Ser Kevan and Lady Dorna, is blissfully unwedded and unbedded, existing only as an obligatory presence in the court of King's Landing. Suitors are of no concern; she cares only for the brutish Hound and whether or not he might return her secretly held desire.Early chapters take place in some nebulous season 1/2 era, the rest will span the timeline of the show to now. Has become something of a fix-it fic at this point.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm brand new to Game of Thrones, have been binge watching for the past few days and have just begun season 4. I have never read the books. Though I've been researching extensively on the side, my apologies for any lore I might get wrong. Vevynne is, of course, my own creation and kind of a twist on the preexisting daughter Kevan and Dorna have in the book canon. That's about all, I think?

She thought him beautiful when she first saw him; beautiful and terrible in the way mountains are, jagged and towering and ugly and indestructible. She supposed he wouldn’t have appreciated that comparison, considering his brother, but that was apropos. He was nothing like Gregor, whom she and everyone else knew to not possess a heart or soul. Though Sandor Clegane might have feigned to be the same she would not so soon forget the time he seized her before she could slip from the rocks into the sea. No one had commanded him (Joffrey would sooner have laughed at her crumpled body than see her rescued, had he been there) no one saw or would have, her accidental death would not have meant anything other than a few solemnly uttered regrets. He merely uttered that she not be ‘so stupid again’ and went on his way.

 

She would also not forget the solid strength of his arms, the same she’d think about alone in her bed. It was difficult, at first, to identify what that fixation of hers was, a thing she hadn’t the chance to acquaint herself with among fabrics and jewels and the fierce guarding of her honor and any knowledge of physical pleasures until the time of a strategic marriage. Secretly, she’d think of his arms around her again and feel the throbbing between her legs, a hunger that would only grow with time. She knew enough of female desire to know what she wanted.

 

Vevynne was well past her first blood, 24 years of age, not yet married and considered also past her prime to most. This was not an encouraging fact for her secret desire, as it was the case only because her father refused any suitors presented to her. Ser Kevan fancied for her a higher born, ever hopeful a Dornish prince might offer himself and therein forge an alliance, but she knew this to be foolish no matter how sweetly he campaigned to his brother and the rest. Myrcella, a proper princess, would be given for this task not she.

 

Therefore she supposed for herself it would be a Frey or someone of the like, someone for whom she could easily excuse a lack of a maidenhead (if she was so lucky) on a poor saddle, provided it was even an issue. She didn’t much care, being the Lannister girl to fall between the cracks as her brothers worked towards knighthood. She was useless without fulfilling her purpose of marrying and having children, would eventually be too useless for even that, but in this she was not disheartened. In many ways she was free, more so than most highborn ladies, and though she dreamed of running away through the hills or charting a ship across the Blackwater to wherever she pleased she still enjoyed what free reign she did have in not being held so closely to expectation.

 

No one noticed where or to whom she looked and that was fortunate, as her gaze so often was devoted to the King’s loyal Hound. Cersei did catch her staring once, and in her infinite egotism assumed it was at Joffrey. Vevynne was made quite aware of the fact that such a union would never happen beyond her wildest dreams and she did her best to seem solemn and regretful that her monstrous goblin of a cousin would never wed her.

 

She didn’t like many things Joffrey did, but the way he spoke to Sandor Clegane made her the angriest. Perhaps he didn’t realize his loyal ‘dog’ could break him in half over his knee if he wished it? _She_ wished he would. She didn’t think the anger she saw burning subtly in his eyes at the things the King did and said was just her imagination. Perhaps one day.

 

For now, she could only nurse the growing hunger that had situated itself inside her. Longing gazes might have been sufficient for a time but it was not enough, _never_ enough, and though she was not entirely resolved on what she planned to do about it she did begin to speak to him anyway, as coy as she dared. She began by bidding him to do things for her, small tasks, “fetch this, if you would”, only when Joffrey was away or out of ear shot. “Might the King spare you for a moment, Clegane?” she would ask with a smile before giving him some frivolous request. He didn’t speak to her, however, not extensively beyond the necessary courtesies.

 

As she wanted him to say more she began daring to ask questions, innocent things that wouldn’t push his patience or have her removed from court. Things like “How do you find the afternoon, Clegane? Beautiful, isn’t it?”, soon became, “I’ve heard of your father Ser Clegane. Was he a strong fortress of a man as well as his sons?” and he would concede with short, grunted answers, leaving before a conversation could take place. He didn’t have to deign to pass the time with her.

 

All of that was permissible, but it was the day she requested he fetch her ‘accidentally’ dropped handkerchief in the gardens, thanked him with a brush of the hand on his own that lingered just a bit too long that things began to change. She didn’t expect, some days later, to be cornered by him in the foyer on the way to her chambers, but nor did she protest. He didn’t lay a hand on her at that point, merely rounded on her at a corner in such a way that she couldn’t easily slip past. He also moved in close enough that she could feel his hot breath on her cheeks; this made her back into the wall, though only in the hopes that he might follow and pin her there.

 

“A woman’s charms are a powerful thing. She should take care how she uses them, don’t you think?”

 

It was, to this point, the most she’d ever heard him say. She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t a little bit frightened, but this fear mixed with her desire in the cruelest, most delicious of ways. If there had been a fire burning in her before it was merely embers in the kindling. Now, it began to consume her.

 

“I’m fully aware of this power,” she replied, standing as tall she could (though still barely to his shoulder). “And I think you’ll find, _Sandor Clegane_ , that I use it only as I mean to. Not unlike your sword, perhaps?”

 

“You know nothing of my sword.” The words were challenging, but the tone that delivered them wavered. “And if it were in your hands I think you’d find it too large a burden.”

 

She assumed he was testing her, a game she intended to win. He would soon discover she was not the blushing, naive highborn he perhaps expected her to be.

“Though we may not partake in battle, it is as you say; women have their own strengths. _I_ think if you were to allow it, you would see I have a sheath worthy of your weapon.”

 

She stepped closer to him as if to prove this, did her best to hide the trembling she felt in her hands. He did not move away, but she saw his jaw clench in restraint. Whether he meant to take her or kill her, she didn’t care. With every bit of courage in her she placed a hand on his breast, drew it up gingerly.

 

“It would be...difficult, I imagine.” She swallowed, her throat dry. “To fit such a large sword in something so tight and untested...but perhaps we’d find a way?”

 

He seized her wrist, her breath caught in her throat. His grip was as strong as she remembered it to be and she only burned hotter. He then backed her right up against the wall again, pressing her wrist there, arm above her head, against the cold, hard brick.

 

“There are men a plenty in Kings Landing and beyond that would fuck you like a whore. Hike your skirts up, take you hard and fast against a wall-” He did as he described, lifting up the fabric of her dress to hook a hand under her knee, draw her leg up roughly around his waist. She could feel herself become wet, even more so as he thrust his hips into hers and pressed them there. She knew what a man’s desire felt like- his was hard and long and so very noticeable against the thin fabric of her small clothes, even through his armor.

 

When the Hound leaned into the curve of her neck and whispered she thought she might die from it all. She welcomed it.

 

“Is that all you want then?”

 

“Only from you,” she replied, though the words felt as if they came from someone else. She was miles away, floating on a haze of glorious desire and the heat of his breath, the coarse scratch of his stubble, his smell of ale and oak and smoke and blood.

 

“Come to me, then. Come and beg for it.”

 

And then, he released her, leaving her hot and cold and wet and aching. He must have known as he walked away, brisk and powerful, perhaps all the more satisfied in knowing he left her hunger peaked and unaided.

  
Vevynne knew only that she _would_ go to him when the time was right and she would make him her own.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vevynne comes to the Hound as requested, prepared to beg for what she wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is, pretty much entirely, PWP. I do have a bigger plot planned in coming chapters however. This is just sex, but I think we all kind of knew it was going that way, didn't we? ;)

Perhaps he’d thought she wouldn’t come, that he had scared her away with his forward gesture and that would be the end of it. Perhaps that had been his intention all along. Vevynne couldn’t imagine that his knowledge of Lannisters would be so lacking; he had left her trembling, aching, ravenous for him and helpless in the cold hallway. Everyone knew a Lannister paid her debts, even -and maybe  _ especially _ \- the Hound. 

 

She came to his quarters under cover of nightfall, cloaked in black with only the moon to light her way. Though no one at court typically paid her much mind she didn’t want to risk stray curiosity from a candle or lantern’s flame. Lord Varys would know either way, she was certain of that, but whether or not knowledge of this visit would be of any use to him only time would tell. She didn’t much care either way. 

 

A slip in through the cracked window earned her a harsh push up against the wall and the cold steel of a sword against her neck.

 

“Careful,” she warned, removing her hood and feigning suavity even as he had stolen her breath again.  “Somehow I don’t think my father or uncle would take kindly to my neck being sliced.”

 

Sandor huffed out a breath of irritation, sheathed and put away his sword. 

 

“Might be worth it if it means not losing an hour of sleep.” 

 

He was out of his armor, clad only in a loose, billowing shirt, trousers and boots. It didn’t seem to take an inch off his bulk however, still the towering figure of a man that could crush another’s head in the grip of his hands. To match his state of undress she removed her cloak to reveal the thin silken gown she’d chosen before leaving her quarters. It left very little to the imagination, the sort of dress a whore or handmaiden might wear and not a woman of the court. She very felt very little like the latter these days anyhow. 

 

“You mean to stay then,” he observed. Not a question. His eyes seemed to purposefully avoid her as he poured her a glass of wine and handed it over with very little grace. 

 

“If you’ll have me,” she replied, though she didn’t think he’d find himself in any position to refuse her. “If I recall correctly you  _ did _ give me invitation.”  

 

“Yes.” He took a swig of his own wine. “And what did I say?  _ Beg me _ .” 

 

Another test? Perhaps. If he did not know how keenly she wanted him, how willing she was to do anything he bid her, she would  _ show _ him and be glad for the opportunity. So long had she waited, so long had she hungered and yearned, it wasn’t difficult to fall to her knees in front of him, her mouth not far from what she’d been told vexed a man the most. She had been educated in what her mouth  _ could _ do. 

 

“Please,” she said, gazing up at him through her lashes. “ _ Please _ . I have desired only you for what’s felt like a lifetime.” 

 

His jaw clenched again as she saw it do in the foyer. “Please  _ what _ ? If you know what you want be specific, woman.” 

 

She wet her parched lips with the strategic swipe of her tongue. “Fuck me like a whore.” 

 

The Hound bent down, far enough to cup her chin in his hands, raise her mouth a hair’s breadth from his own. “I don’t _ fuck _ whores.” Then released her, roughly. 

 

She managed a frustrated laugh. “And yet, I’m  _ not _ a whore. You know that.”

 

“If it looks like a fish and smells like a fish.” His only reply before gulping the wine he poured himself, wiping his mouth roughly with the back of his hand. He hadn’t an ounce of social graces- something that would’ve repelled most women of her standing. If anything, it only made him more attractive to her.

 

She stood up again, drifted her way over to him from behind like a cat cornering her prey. Her...much, much larger prey. 

 

“All men have needs, Clegane. I know you aren’t as impervious to them as you’d like for me to believe.” 

 

He didn’t move from where he was, so she risked coming closer, nearly up against his back. She went further still, gracing a hand down his shoulder and arm and feeling the muscle that teemed beneath. 

 

“And you  _ are _ lonely. I imagine it’s been quite awhile since you’ve felt a woman’s warmth.” 

 

“You think you know everything,” he laughed, derisive, under his breath. “How like a Lannister.” 

 

“Well...you haven’t made me leave yet.” 

 

He rounded on her as he had before, this time seizing both of her wrists in a vice-like grip. “I  _ could _ if I wanted to. I could toss you out this window, watch your body break into a million pieces on the rocks.” 

 

“Yes,” she agreed. “I knew that when I came. Some risks are worth taking.” 

 

A hand moved from her wrist to the small of her back, pressing her against him. He was still solid and immovable like a moving, breathing stone and she knew she was completely at his mercy. If there was fear in this she delighted in it. 

“You play with fire long enough, you’re bound to get burned,” he said, his lips ghosting hers. His breath was not foul as she half expected it to be, rather instead it smelled of the tang of alcohol and something that was entirely  _ him _ . 

 

“I’m a Lannister,” she replied. “I fear nothing.” 

 

“That’s stupid. All Lannisters are painfully stupid.” 

 

With that, he tossed her unceremoniously on his bed, fumbled with the lacings of his trousers in a desperate, trembling sort of way despite his talk. He wouldn’t admit it outloud, she knew, but he  _ was _ as hungry as she. She reached out to help and he knocked her hands away. 

 

“Lift up your skirts,” he commanded in a growl, giving her hands a task he seemed to feel more suited to them. That wasn’t difficult, as there was only a thin sheen of silk separating him from her bare body. She hadn’t bothered to wear any small clothes, what good would they have been if this had turned out the way she hoped?

 

“You’d better hope that tight cunt of yours is wet,” he said as he finally pulled his trousers free to reveal the  _ sword _ he’d spoken of earlier. His warning and her early feel of it hadn’t been deceptive; he was quite large, larger than anything a virgin perhaps had any right to take inside of her. She felt her mouth fall open in shock. 

 

“Didn’t believe me? Stupid Lannister pride.” He wrapped his hand around the base of it, another hand went to the back of her head. “Take it in your mouth first. That’ll help some.” 

 

She could think of nothing she wanted more, except perhaps having him inside her properly. Still, she was touched by his concern for how they would fit together under the circumstances. She knew him to have a soft heart underneath it all and, truth be told, he did a very poor job of hiding it. That was fine. She was keen to reward him. 

 

She got on all fours, leaned over the edge of the bed and looked up at him, coquettish, as she experimentally licked the head. 

 

“Don’t fuck around, girl,” he hissed, pressing into the back of her head, seizing a fistful of her hair. “You wanted this,  _ take it _ .” 

 

She grinned, despite the rather formidable task that faced her. It felt like a challenge, as if he didn’t believe she could truly take him all in any orifice. She couldn’t yet speak of what things would be like when he entered her properly, but as for this…? It had been helpfully pointed out to her before by Cersei and her handmaidens that she did not easily choke and that would be of use to her when she was married. Vevynne finally understood. 

 

Not leaving his gaze she took him into her mouth, all the way into the base until the head of his manhood was pressed against the back of her throat. Her eyes watered but she refused to gag, watching in amazement as his head tilted back in open-mouthed pleasure. To hold such a man under her sway like this made her feel more powerful than a thousand iron thrones could have. 

 

She repeated this action, moving back and then on to him again, picking up speed until he was stabbing her throat again and again and tears flowed down her cheeks. Finally, he’d had enough and pulled her off of him with a yank of her hair. 

 

“You’re no virgin,” he decided, breathless. 

 

She laughed, feeling more powerful than she ever had in her life. 

 

“I may be untested, but I’m not  _ ignorant _ . The Lannisters educate their women.” 

 

He grabbed her again, flipped her around as easily as if she weighed nothing, still on all fours. 

 

“Fuck me, _ please _ ,” she begged, instinctively lowering down on her elbows and pushing out her hips. She wanted nothing more than for him to tear through her, knowing herself to be as sopping wet now as he had warned she needed. Nevertheless he hesitated, seeming to dampen his fingers with his own spit before running them through her heat. 

 

She gasped, clenched the fabric of his bed furs in her fists so hard they threatened to tear. His touch was deliciously rough against her. One very thick finger inserted itself inside, curled to grace a spot she hadn’t acquainted herself with yet and she let out a loud cry. 

 

“Shut up, girl,” he warned. “Mewling like a common whore...you’ll have both our heads.”

 

She knew he was right and she swore to do her best to keep quiet, but when he began to ease himself inside of her she knew it would be impossible to keep that promise on her own. Vevynne pressed her face into the thick of the bed, muffling her cries into the furs and feather down as he pulled and stretched her until she was full to the brim. 

 

All of him, every thick, hard inch of desire. The pain made her feel alive. Yes-  _ this _ was why she lived and breathed.  _ This _ was life, every bit of it filling her and making her whole. There would be blood from her ruined maidenhead, she was sure of it, the evidence that this wonderful bit of the world had made itself known to her finally.

 

She half expected him to be rough and fast and unforgiving, but his movements at first were instead slow and hard. His large hand, which just about spanned the width of her back, rubbed circles on her lower spine. The other gripped her hip to keep her in place, squeezing harder as he picked up pace and she adjusted to his size. The pain morphed into exquisite pleasure, to the point that not even the bedding could properly muffle her cries.

The Hound instead pulled her up, enough so that his hand could wrap around her mouth and press itself there to keep her silent. This new position allowed for him to pound into her, faster, harder. No longer was she aware of the physical world or where his body ended and hers began.

 

She felt her body moving towards a glorious end, hindered only by the lack of touch at that throbbing, aching spot between her legs. She moved to relieve it on her own but he ripped her hand away again, tended to it on his own with fast, purposeful, circled rubbing, breathing desperate, filthy things into the curve of her neck that she couldn’t seem to decipher entirely in her lustfilled haze. 

 

Finally, gloriously, their pleasure peaked and the greatest thing she had ever known washed over her; she was shattered and moulded together again by him. Everything was him, wrapped around her and filling her, consuming her senses. 

 

He pulled out of her quickly, leaving her empty and aching once more, fast enough that she could feel his hot release hit the small of her back as he groaned in his own guttural completion. 

 

And then, seemingly as soon as it began, it was over. She collapsed down and he threw her a stray rag with the instructions to clean herself up. 

 

“You got what you wanted,” he helpfully pointed out. “Now I get what I want- some sleep. Clean yourself off and go to bed.” 

 

_ Her _ bed, she knew he meant, and though she very much wished to convinced him to let her stay she knew that was ill-advised for more reasons than one. 

 

“I’d like to pay you a visit again,” she said, after having cleaned herself as much as a rag would allow. She’d need a proper bath back in her quarters to really do the job. “ _ If _ you’ll have me.”

 

Sandor was already reclining on the bed, eyes closed and hands folded in his lap. The only evidence of their prior activity was the shortened rise and falls of his broad chest.

 

“You’re a good fuck,” he commended. “You can come back-  _ if _ you can keep quiet.”  

 

“I’ll bring a ball gag next time. I’m sure I can find one in the dungeons.” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The situation intensifies in King's Landing; Vevynne plots her escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my next trick, I will shamelessly insert my OC into canon events from the show lol. Hopefully I do it well, seamlessly. If not, that's okay, this story is a bit of self-indulgent fun so hopefully we're all up for that. WARNING: there is an attempted rape scene in this chapter (you will probably recognize it from canon events) and gore. That's about it, I think. It's like 1:30 am and I need to be asleep, apologies if I've forgotten anything else I should've mentioned.

She continued to visit him as the whim took her, taking care that it wasn’t  _ every _ night for fear that they might be discovered. This worked to their advantage, however, as she’d wait just until the need was too great for her to bear and then she’d slip in under cover of nightfall to find themselves ravenous for each other. Vevynne knew enough of the Hound now that he wouldn’t accept her just for her sake; if he didn’t enjoy their time together just as much as she did he would’ve told her to find another toy. She would’ve preferred that if it were the case- it wouldn’t have been as gratifying if she didn’t believe  _ he _ was getting something out of it too. 

 

This continued as the world around them began to burn. She wasn’t ignorant of it, the Lannisters had been resorting to desperate, ruthless means to achieve their ends for years and now that Winter was coming it stood to reason that those means would only intensify. She didn’t condone any of it, not her brother Lancel’s rumored involvement in King Robert’s death, not the treatment of the Starks (whether or not Ned Stark was  _ actually _ a traitor), but what could she have done? It was a rare day when anyone at court even remembered she existed. 

 

The public abuse of Sansa Stark was hard to ignore, however. She always knew cousin Joffrey to be a spoiled shit but it seemed when he was given untempered power an evil arose in him none of them had known before. 

 

“I thought it was a kind thing you did for the Stark girl,” Vevynne mentioned one evening after their activities. He’d gotten either more comfortable with her staying a bit longer afterwards or willing to tolerate her presence. She knew better than to question a good thing. “I know you wished you could’ve done more.” 

 

“You think you know everything,” he grunted, dismissive. “One day you’ll learn otherwise.” 

 

He was as guarded as ever, as she expected. 

 

“I don’t pretend to know  _ everything _ ,” she corrected, drawing circles on his chest with the tip of her finger. “But I know more of you than you’d like to believe. Perhaps that makes us  _ both _ ignorant then.”

 

He said nothing to this, either because he had nothing to counter with or because he simply didn’t want to continue the conversation. Vevynne considered it a victory regardless. 

 

“You must continue to watch over her,” she said after a time. “I fear there are many more horrors for her yet to come.” 

 

“What do you think I’ve been  _ doing _ ?” He gripped her hip and pulled her closer to him. “King Joffrey will be the death of us all.”

 

Vevynne gritted her teeth. “Not of me. Not if I can help it.”

* * *

 

The days grew shorter, the circumstances more dire. She should have known that the worst would  _ not _ be the riot of bloodthirsty, hungry peasants that overwhelmed them- though it was in this rabble that she barely escaped with her life. In the fray she could hardly hear the barked orders and warnings, though she wouldn’t assume they were meant for her. If she had been lost in the crowd, torn limb-from-limb like the High Septon, she didn’t expect it would be of any consequence to anyone else. 

 

Instead, when Tyrion barked out concern for where Sansa was, she set her sights on the Stark girl, swimming her way through the danger to grab the precious Key to the North.  

 

“Come my Lady,” Vevynne whispered, making her jump when she seized her arm. “It’s me, it’s only me. We have to go.” 

 

They didn’t know each other well, had barely spoken, and she thought it likely Sansa might refuse her on the basis of being a Lannister alone. Thankfully fear and desperation meant more in the moment than House politics. 

 

Vevynne draped cloth over both their heads and pulled them into the nearest alley, dragging them down the steps and into the darkness of what she hoped would be something resembling safety. 

 

“Where are we going?” Sansa asked, her voice trembling. Vevynne found her limbs were doing much of the same. 

 

“I don’t know.” An honest answer, she hadn’t been allowed to explore King’s Landing beyond the Red Keep and didn’t know as much of the city’s layout as she did Casterly Rock. “Away from this? That seems as good a tactic as any right now.” 

 

The plan running through her mind thus far was to keep going until the were far away from it all, hidden away in the shadows where they could wait out the violence until it was safe to try and venture back. Or maybe let Sansa go back and make her own way of things. It’d be a good excuse to disappear, wouldn’t it? Lost in the mob, torn apart or worse, they could think what they liked. 

 

Would Sandor miss her? She had to wonder. 

 

Unfortunately the two of them didn’t get far before it became apparent they were being chased, rounded up and cornered in the stables by a band of men who were all too obvious about what they wanted. 

 

“Get behind me,” Vevynne ordered Sansa, grabbing the nearest thing to her that resembled a weapon (a large pitchfork). She’d never fought, never been taught how to wield a sword or anything of the kind, but defending herself and the Stark girl in a moment of life or death felt like a task she could reasonably accomplish. Maybe. 

 

“Get back!” she yelled, thrusting the prongs warningly at the men as they swarmed, standing as protective as she could in front of Sansa. She was still a waif of a woman, still no match for 5? 6? Men and their strength. 

 

“Got a bit of fight in you then, Lannister  _ bitch _ ?” one hissed, unexpectedly grabbing the end of the pitchfork, throwing her up against the wall. The men used the opportunity to grab hold of Sansa and force her into the straw. “You can watch- then we’ll take turns with you.” 

 

The one who’d taunted Vevynne got a hold of her throat, forced her to look as the men dragged Sansa forward, ripped her skirts. Their shrieks mingled, it wasn’t clear who made one or the other, and a force Vevynne had never known before, foreign and primal, tore through her. She took a firm grip of the pitchfork and shoved it through the man’s gut and out the end of his back. 

 

He gurgled, blood spurt from his mouth, and he backed away from her to his knees. The force continued; she stabbed the fork deep into another’s back, one that pulled at Sansa’s legs, then into the throat of another that charged at her, pinning him to the wall. He garbled blood and spat some on her face the same as the first had. 

 

Being transfixed by this, the thick of the blood and the sight of the life leaving the man’s hateful eyes, the power of holding a man in her sway under an entirely different context, was her downfall. The others used it as opportunity to grab her, pull her from the grip of the fork and made to throw her into the hay along with their other captive. Though she kicked and screamed and bit, it did no good. 

 

Thank the Seven, then, that another should join them. In the blink of an eye one man was disemboweled, another had his throat cut before he could run away. 

 

“What in  _ Seven hells _ were you thinking?” 

 

She’d know the Hound’s voice anywhere, she’d know it even if she hadn’t seen him towering there before them in the shadows. 

 

“Saving the Stark girl,” she replied, a true and firm answer. “I hadn’t  _ planned _ for us to get cornered.” 

 

Sandor helped Sansa to her feet, threw her over his shoulder saying as comforting as he knew how, “You’re alright, little bird.” 

 

He then looked to Vevynne, the men already slaughtered around them. “Would ask if  _ you _ can walk, but then again…” 

 

She nodded in confirmation. “I did what must be done.” 

 

He squinted his eyes at her, incredulous. “Perhaps. But you enjoyed it.” 

 

She recalled feeling the man’s windpipe pierce and crush under the pressure of the prongs, the thrill that shocked through her bones at realizing she had that kind of strength. 

 

“I’d relish killing any man that tried to defile a young girl.” 

 

Sandor just shook his head, bid her to follow them back to the Keep. 

* * *

 

When the battle came it only stood to reason that she’d be down with the rest of the women, cowering around Cersei as if  _ she _ would do anything about it. Except Vevynne didn’t cower, not so much for a lack of fear but to instead stay pressed near the windows so to see how the battle progressed (what little she could from that vantage point). She couldn’t help but fantasize about escape; how many of these opportunities would she lose before someone killed her or worse? 

 

Fitting, then, that Cersei would speak to Sansa of betrayal, deserters and traitors so pointedly, but she didn’t seem to mean the veiled threats  _ just _ for her. 

 

“Vevynne, darling,” Cersei beckoned, having set her sights on her cousin as the next target. “You seem very preoccupied with that window.”

 

“I wish to see the battle, your Grace,” Vevynne replied, with every bit of the innocent subservience she knew the Queen expected. 

 

Cersei smirked. “Then why stay down here? If blood and steel excites you so much perhaps you should go up and take your chances.” 

 

Veynne bit her cheek, an effort (however small) to keep back any smart retorts. Now was not the time or place to try her luck, not with Ser Payne eying them all. 

 

“I’m only eager to see our men emerge triumphant.” 

 

“Our  _ men _ ?” Cersei gestured her closer with that look of a serpent about to strike. Vevynne knew what was coming, came over anyway to allow the Queen to seize her arm and whisper into her ear, “Or one man in particular?” 

Her gaze fell to the ground.  _ Of course _ Cersei would know. It was as much a confirmation of her secret proclivities as anyone needed. 

 

“Some advice, cousin?” Cersei offered, triumphant in her efforts to squeeze out the truth. “We all have our secret toys, our private play things. Don’t confuse lust with love. Don’t besmirch our family’s name and all that is entitled to you for the sake of a large  _ cock _ .” 

 

Vevynne was then released from her hold, tossed gently to the side for whoever Cersei would choose to antagonize next, left to ruminate on the theoretical plan of escape that had now become certain. 

 

She  _ would _ leave, even if it meant being speared to a pincushion in the battlefields. King’s Landing had suffocated her enough. 

 

* * *

  
  


Much happened over the span of the next few hours, including her brother emerging to report the Blackwater set aflame with Wildfire and being ordered to bring Joffrey back to safety by Cersei (Vevynne expected no less). She waited, bated her breath; her escape would come, even if it was in the form of Baratheon men armed with swords and spears. 

 

Lancel appeared again to tell them the battle was lost, wounded, to which Cersei took advantage before storming off. Vevynne fell to her brother’s side, deaf to the hymn Sansa led with the other women. 

 

“You’re injured,” she observed, the obvious but no less important to point out as his blood ran between her fingers. “You need aid.”

 

“I need to help!” he argued. “I need to find the King!” 

 

Vevynne would hear none of it and Lancel was in no position to fight her. She helped him to his feet in time to catch Sansa’s handmaiden urging her back to her quarters. Agreeing with this plan of action, she took her hand. 

 

“I’ll accompany you, Lady Stark, as before. No one is raping us either. If not I, then Lancel will see to that.” 

 

The handmaiden Shae seemed skeptical of this, but either due to desperation or the somewhat success they’d had with Vevynne’s sloppy use of the pitchfork, Sansa consented. The three of them took off down the hallways and stairs, the initial plan in her mind being to leave Lancel safely in her own bedroom. He had other ideas, however, instead shoving her  _ and _ Sansa in the latter’s quarters. 

“I have to go back,” he said, no room to debate him otherwise. “You both stay here and bar the door. Keep quiet. You’ll be safe.” 

 

_ I don’t want to be safe! _  She wished she could rally back.  _ I want to be free!  _ But Lancel was gone before anything else could be said. 

 

“Your brother is right.” Sansa locked the door. “This is our only chance of survival.” 

 

“ _ Your _ survival,” Vevynne corrected. “That is of the highest importance. Mine, however, means nothing.” 

 

She grabbed a nearby napsack and began to pack anything that looked useful- a letter opener, bits of food, a couple of candles. 

 

“Where will you go?” 

 

“North, West, East. Does it matter?” 

 

“To your death, armed with that useless shit,” a voice interjected, one Vevynne recognized but made them both jump nonetheless. 

 

“Sandor,” she breathed, fighting the urge to run to him. “What are you doing here? The battle-” 

 

“Not here for long. I’m going.” 

 

Sansa was visibly shaken, Vevynne couldn’t blame her. It was hard to know who was friend or foe these days, even among company that had saved her life. 

 

“Then you’re taking me with you,” Vevynne decided, to which he scoffed. She didn’t give him a chance to list the reasons why it was foolish. “I’m leaving either way. You said it yourself- I’d be going to my death and you’re probably right. That is why  _ you _ will escort me.”

 

He grit his jaw; the argument wasn’t over, not by a mile, but there wasn’t time to have that back and forth. Instead, he looked to Sansa.

 

“We could go North. To Winterfell. You could come. Do you want to go home?” 

 

Vevynne caught her gaze, looking to her both pleading and rational. She didn’t think of it before, prior to the Hound becoming a factor in this escape plan, but now it seemed much more sensible than staying barricaded and hoping for the best. 

 

“You should, Lady Stark. Your fate here remains anything but certain, even  _ if _ my family reigns victorious.”   

“ _ That _ you should probably fear most of all,” Sandor added. Vevynne hadn’t wanted to say, but it was true. Had she been the one betrothed to Joffrey she would’ve thrown herself to Stannis’ mercy long before. Or off the side of the Keep.

 

And yet somehow she knew the pleas would make no difference. Sansa was strong and brave in her own ways, stupid and naive in others. 

 

“I’ll be safe here,” she decided. “Stannis won’t hurt me.” 

 

Sandor lunged at her before Vevynne could make another attempt to convince her otherwise.

 

“Look at me,” he barked, grabbing her forearm and making her flinch. “Stannis is a killer. The Lannisters are killers.” Sansa’s eyes darted to hers for a split second. Vevynne only gave a subtle nod in agreement. “Your father was a killer. Your brother is a killer. Your sons will be killers someday. The world is built by killers; so you’d better get used to looking at them.

 

With a sense of gumption no one present realized she had in her, Sansa looked him square in the eye and said with a tone of realization, “ _ You _ won’t hurt me.” 

 

“No, little bird. I won’t hurt you.” 

 

She had called his bluff, much to his obvious chagrin. She also still wasn’t coming with them, lest Sandor saw fit to throw her over his shoulder again...but then, he  _ had _ been bested. He turned and made to leave, throwing out to Vevynne, “If you’re coming you’d better hurry along.” 

 

She took the opportunity to take Sansa’s hands in her own, figuring for whatever friendship they had formed, whatever they owed each other for the horrors they had shared, she’d take advantage of that now. 

 

“Tell them I left on my own. Tell them I made an attempt to escape. I’ll leave evidence enough that I’m dead. And  _ please _ ,” she squeezed the other girl’s hand. “Watch after my brother. You may be his only mercy someday.” 

 

With that, she followed her newfound protector out the door. 

* * *

 

They managed to procure horses on their way out. Vevynne had fortune on her side, caught sight of and stole her favorite riding steed, Winter, from the stables. For this Sandor criticized her, as with all the chaos raging around them there wasn’t time to be selective about who or what she was taking out of King’s Landing. This led to a further argument about the logistics of bringing a Lannister noble woman along with him, particularly after having insulted the King. 

 

“If this goes in their favor they’ll have a bounty on my head by morning,” he huffed. They had finally escaped the fire of battle and made their way along a quiet forest road. 

 

“Certainly they will,” she agreed. “For abandoning your post. All they’ll find of me? A torn piece of bloodied clothing. Sansa’s story will lead them to believe I was kidnapped or worse by Stannis’ men. If the city falls...then I’m no one.” 

 

At this thought, she smiled.

 

“There’s nothing to grin about. Can you do  _ anything _ useful beyond work your mouth and cunt? Build a fire? Hunt?”    

 

He’d successfully stolen her momentary self-satisfaction. Vevynne all but pouted. 

 

“You  _ know _ I can’t. Perhaps I’ll learn from you. Besides, I wasn’t half-bad with that pitchfork.” 

 

Sandor huffed out a derisive laugh. “Sloppy at best. Did you bring one with you? Is that your weapon of choice?” 

 

She glared over at him. “No,  _ you _ are.” 

 

He had nothing to say to that because it was, of course,  _ true _ . When they were far enough away he decided they should make camp; Vevynne decided to remind him she had her own useful qualities, even now out in the wilderness. 

 

She laid on her makeshift bedding across the fire from him, the fire he had shown her how to start and made a point of leaving  _ her _ to handle. She knew better than to chastise him for that,  _ everyone _ knew the stories of how The Hound had earned his mottled face. 

 

“Even if I  _ never _ learn the practicalities of survival,” she purred, pulling the shoulder of her dress down. “One has to admit there are other ways I can serve you.” 

 

He grimaced. “ _ Now? _ I didn’t take you for the sort to get aroused by war and certain death. Sick Lannister bitch.” 

 

It wasn’t the first time he’d called her that, always prefacing some new act she suggested they try in their time alone together. She fancied it almost a term of endearment, as close he’d ever get to one. 

 

She left her spot to go to his, crawl up his legs and mount herself on his lap.

 

“As if to suggest you  _ aren’t _ .” She laced her fingers in his own, laid them down on either side of his head. 

“Never meant to suggest that, and it wasn’t an insult.” 

 

She couldn’t keep him pinned, not even if that had remotely been her desire, but he reminded her of the fact by flipping them both over so she laid on her back beneath him. He claimed her further with hard, possessive sucking on the slope of her neck, the kind they could  _ never _ do at the Red Keep for fear of leaving tell-tale marks. 

 

He shoved her skirts up her legs, ripped the fabric of her bodice to release her breasts. She didn’t have the presence of mind to complain that it was her  _ only _ piece of clothing. It was as if they were doing this for the first time, now more wild and unbidden than they’d ever been before. They made all the noise they liked as he fucked her and she, him. There was no one to hear, see, judge, beyond the wilderness that surrounded them and the night sky that blanketed them from above. 

 

“We are free,” she found herself whispering in his ear. “Finally. We are  _ free _ .” 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vevynne and Sandor set out on an uncertain path.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More plot in this one! And mention of chickens! More chickens to come! I've also included a FC pic for Vevynne in this chapter, the lovely Lea Seydoux from her role in Beauty and the Beast. She's every bit a Lannister as anyone could want imo

 

 

They hadn’t spoken of where they were going or what they planned to do at the end of this spontaneous adventure and Vevynne found she didn’t much care; it was enough to be away from where she’d come from, where she always thought she’d be. Survival proved difficult for her in the first few days, having so little experience at fending for herself in even the most basic of ways, but fire building and starting caught on for her. Gathering firewood was easy enough. Sandor would catch rabbits and showed her how to help skin them. He also managed to steal a more understated dress for her from a village they passed through, as the one she’d left in was ruined and spoke too much of her highborne standing. 

 

She  _ could _ sew, one of the few manual activities that was allowed her as a Lannister. She spent a great many evenings mending any tears and tatters they got along the road, even those that were too minor to warrant immediate addressing. It gave her something to do, the illusion of being useful. 

 

“Thinking of your brother?” Sandor ventured one night after they had sat for awhile in comfortable silence. 

 

She wasn’t sure how he could’ve known, but in fact the red burlap she tended to  _ did _ remind her of Lancel. Perhaps it was the tears she had been trying to hide, blink away into her work. 

 

“He was wounded when I left,” she said. “Not direly, but enough. I don’t know how well he would’ve fought after the fact. I didn’t want him to go back into battle.” 

 

“You can’t ask that of a man.” He then huffed out a derisive laugh. “Not unless he happens to be your cunt of a King.” 

 

“He’s not my King. He was never  _ my _ King.” 

 

Sandor grunted a bit, perhaps in agreement, maybe in doubt. Another beat of silence passed before he suggested, “Your uncle might have arrived, saved them all. Your brother may still live, for whatever good that does him in the days to come.”

 

“For every bit a shivering squire you may have known him to be, Lancel always wished to die at the steel of a blade. If that was the fate that met him then I’m glad. I can only hope it was quick. Clean.”

 

Had she been someone else, she knew, he likely would’ve argued the much more probable alternative. She was grateful for his silence. It was all the peace she’d be allowed to make of having left her family, the family she loved but could not live with.

* * *

  
“I haven’t had ale in days. All this wandering and fucking makes a man thirsty.” 

 

He had said so several times, despite her numerous reminders they’d been able to procure water. Not _ that  _ kind of thirsty, he’d told her, the kind of thirst only a tavern could quench. She couldn’t seem to steer him off the craving, no matter her concerns that she shouldn’t be seen by mixed company, not so soon after escaping King’s Landing. 

 

“There  _ could _ be a price on me,” she protested. “I’m not going back there. I’m not keen to have men paw at me either.” 

 

“You’re not going back,” he said, decisive. “The first man who touches you loses the hand and arm.” 

 

“You can’t be sure-”

 

“Why did you insist on coming with me for protection if you’re not going to let me  _ protect _ you? There’s nothing to shield you from on these roads but the occasional gnat.” 

 

She wasn’t sure if  _ that _ was true, but to other he had a point. Sandor Clegane stood heads taller and wider over most men, if she was seen in his company it wasn’t likely that anyone would even make an attempt. 

 

“Fine. I could do with a meal that isn’t fire-cooked rabbit or squirrel anyhow. Chicken, perhaps. Wouldn’t that be lovely?” 

 

Her mouth watered at the thought. He hummed in pleased agreement. 

 

“Aye. I’ll fetch us all the chickens we can eat- a reward, for your patience.” 

* * *

  
If it was to be a reward for patience Sandor owed her a great deal of chickens; a whole pen’s worth, it would seem, to atone for his lack of foresight. The Inn he’d chosen was as suspicious as they came, men eying her from all corners with every bit of the dark intent they’d no doubt try if she hadn’t been in his company. She kept to his side, an arm gripped around his at all times despite his arguments that it was hard for him to eat that way. 

 

Vevynne had said no more than a couple of pints, which he perhaps would have kept to had one of the groups of interested patrons not been so bold as to join them. They were not brash or confrontational, but instead the kind of deceptive genteel she knew so well from her upbringing (even if not as cultured). 

 

They hadn’t come over just to past the time and make friends. They didn’t continue to buy them both drinks just for the sake of being generous. 

 

“You have to stop,” she whispered harshly to him when they’d lost count of what pint he was on now. 

 

“The drinks are free. I’ll stop when I  _ like _ .” 

 

His words were already slurring and she knew he was in no state to defend her if the worst happened. 

 

“Your woman is concerned for you,” the leader of the group (seemed to be), pointed out with a smirk. She hadn’t missed the large bow and arrow on his back. “Perhaps we should cut you off for the sake of her delicate sensibilities.” 

 

Vevynne glared at him.

 

“She’s not  _ my _ woman,” Sandor corrected. “And I’m not her man. We belong to no one.” 

 

“Oh, she’s  _ not _ yours then?” The Archer raised an eyebrow, the rest of the men chuckled in earnest. “That changes things.” 

 

He reached out a hand to take her own. True to his word Sandor stood and reached for his sword...and ended up collapsing in a drunken heap before any action could be taken. Vevynne could’ve groaned so loud in irritation all of Westeros would’ve heard her. 

 

“I thought he’d  _ never _ go down! Cost us a fortune in beverage.” 

 

The Archer then bid his fellows to seize and tie up Sandor’s wrists with rope, cover his head with a burlap sack. 

 

“What’re you doing? Stop!” Vevynne futilely pulled at the Archer’s arm, her strength not what it needed to be to make any kind of difference. He looked over to her, as casual an expression as if rising from an afternoon tea. 

 

“We’re catching us a Hound,” he said with a shrug. “You think we wouldn’t have recognized  _ Sandor Clegane _ ?” 

 

His eyes grew more studious on her, more in the way she knew of Cersei or Varys when they were reading her for secrets. Such a look was far more intimidating than lustful intent. 

 

“Interesting that he should be out here, accompanied by a blonde-haired beauty such as yourself. The Lannisters have been missing a Lioness haven’t they? Ever since the Blackwater to-do.” 

 

The men in the group that weren’t seizing and pulling Sandor to his feet were now advancing on her, led by the Archer. Vevynne had no choice but to retreat back. 

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she lied, her voice quivering. “My name is Jasline. I was a farm girl, he came through my village and I-” 

 

The Archer seized her napsack, one that she had hurriedly taken from Sansa’s quarters and hadn’t had the presence of mind yet to remove the embroidered Lannister sigil from. She could’ve kicked herself- not that it would matter, the tell-tale golden lion staring back at them was her downfall. 

 

“It was stolen!” She wasn’t getting out of this without being able to say she had at least tried. “Off of a dead Lannister soldier, I-”

 

The men weren’t hearing any of it. Her hands were locked behind her and tied with coarse rope no matter how she fought. 

 

“It’s a good story,” the Archer commended, sarcastic. “We’re just a bit too smart to buy it. Or at least _ I  _ am, can’t speak for these dumb bastards.”  

 

The both of them were seized and pushed like common prisoners out of the tavern, to whatever fate awaited them with the men that held them captive. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lord of Light has his say. A wolf cub appears. Less chicken than was hoped for.

She’d had her head covered as his was, lifted on to what she assumed was a horse and taken down a path with the group of joking, chuckling men. Whatever they’d said (which she probably  _ should _ have been listening to) fell on deaf ears, as all she could hear in that burlap confinement was her own humid, labored breathing. Vevynne couldn’t remember a time she felt more frightened. 

 

It wasn’t death that scared her, nor the concern of what their intentions might have been beyond this; it was the fact that they had identified her for who she  _ had _ been, that they might return her to King’s Landing for a ransom. They might very well have been heading that way as they spoke, she with no means of arguing or fighting otherwise. 

 

She had sworn to herself she’d never go back and she  _ meant _ it. The moment she saw the Red Keep was the moment she’d skewer herself with the nearest weapon, if that was all that stood between her and a life in a gilded cage- every decision, from whom she wed to where she shat, made for her. She’d do it before they could collect their money.

 

It was the only comfort as they continued down that road, eventually stopping, taking her from the horse and leading her...somewhere else. Not far enough to be King’s Landing, not nearly loud enough either, but a tavern perhaps. An Inn. A brothel?

 

There was cheering. 

 

“That is an uncommonly large person, how does one manage to  _ subdue _ such an uncommonly large person?” An unfamiliar voice.

 

“One waits for him to drink until he passes out.” The smug voice of the Archer. 

 

There was some muffled announcement of Sandor’s identity, followed by mocking barks and howls.

 

“A Hound and a...what’s  _ this _ ?” Her hood was removed, the light of day all but blinding her from seeing the strangers and second location. 

 

“A runaway  _ lionness _ ,” the Archer supplied. “Vevynne Lannister herself, cousin of the King. Who else? Golden hair, lion sigil, the accompaniment of Sandor Clegane.” 

 

The second man, that she could now see better as her eyes adjusted to the light, surveyed her- though his amused gaze seemed to suggest he already accepted the reveal of her identity. When he reached out to stroke a strand of said golden hair she snapped at him, literally. He and the other men laughed.

 

“Careful, Thoros. She bites, that one,” Sandor warned. “I have the teeth marks to prove it.” 

 

“Are all the Lannister women as feisty as that?” The man Sandor called Thoros joked. “I’ve heard stories about the Queen.” 

 

“ _ I  _ am not the Queen,” Vevynne spat. “If any of you touch me, I’ll bite your cock and balls off.” 

 

Thoros smirked, undeterred. “We should be so lucky to have that pretty mouth anywhere  _ near _ our cock and balls.” 

 

Their amusement with her came to an abrupt end when Sandor made an observation; in their midst was not  _ one _ highborne lady, but two- herself and Arya Stark. 

* * *

  
In a surprising turn of events, perhaps, she was released from her binds and left outside to wait as the men prepared to leave. They were The Brotherhood without Banners, deserters of House Stark that functioned to keep the land safe from people like hers and Arya Stark’s families. Their ultimate intentions with her remained unclear, but she kept near Arya (despite her warranted glares) for security’s sake. If she had to take a valuable hostage with the skinning knife Sandor had given her, she would.

 

Arya had taken issue, in the meantime, with her blacksmithing friend outfitting the Brotherhood.

 

“He takes us prisoner and now he’s our  _ friend _ ?” she challenged. 

 

“You’re not our prisoner, little lady,” Thoros corrected. “Neither of you.”

 

Arya asked the question before Vevynne could. “What are _ we _ then?” 

 

“Our guests. No one’s put any chains on you.” 

 

“Does  _ rope _ not count?” Vevynne scoffed. “This says nothing of the fact that you  _ still _ have my protector and traveling companion in binds.” 

 

“I  _ thought _ he wasn’t your man?” She could hear the irritating smirk in his voice, even as he had his back to her. 

 

“So I can walk away then?” Arya asked, obviously aware of the answer. 

 

“These woods aren’t safe for Ned Stark’s daughter,” Thoros replied. “Nor a Lannister girl, for that matter. You’re both lucky we found you.” 

 

Arya’d had enough of the whole thing, storming off rather than arguing further. Old habits died hard for a Lannister though, and Vevynne knew only how to counter those beneath her back at the Red Keep. She rounded on Thoros, glaring him down. 

 

“You think I’m afraid of dying in the woods? I would gladly take my chances on the elements before returning to King’s Landing.”

 

“Why don’t you then?” Thoros shrugged.

 

She gritted her teeth and stepped closer to him. “I’m  _ not  _ leaving without Clegane. He swore an oath to me. He’s mine.” 

 

“You’ll have to take that claim up with the Lord of Light. Not my place to decide.” 

 

“ _ Fanatics _ .” 

 

She turned on her heel, resolved that her attempts at intimidation would get her nowhere in a group of crazed religious zealots. The only choice she had, it seemed, was to continue in their company until an opportunity presented itself. 

 

* * *

  
They were led away again, sacked as before so as to not see the path to the hideout. Vevynne might have told them it made no difference for her; if she was set free once more she’d make a point of never bothering or crossing paths with them again, but talking thus far had proven useless. When they eventually arrived at the dark, dank, wolf’s den of a hideout it became clear that this was to be a trial for the Hound, having been beset with accusations of his brother’s own murders. 

 

A trial by combat, specifically, one that she felt confident he’d emerge from triumphant. Nevertheless, when Arya laid forth her accusation of the butcher’s boy’s slaughter Vevynne saw fit to make her own argument. 

 

“The Lannisters take prisoners too! Of their own kind, no less!” she yelled forth. “As an unfortunate member of the family, I can say this with full confidence and honesty. There are those of us among them with no great love for who they are and what they do, but when little more than slaves what other choice do we have? Clegane was fulfilling his duties as the King’s guard. It was King Joffrey’s will to have the boy killed. If you are men who stand truly stand for justice, it should be the  _ King _ facing this trial. It was his murder and his weaknesses, his cowardice only that prevented him from dealing it by his own hand.”  

 

“You propose we go fetch  _ him _ then?” Thoros suggested, an obvious jibe to which the other men laughed. 

 

“He  _ did _ have a choice,” Arya snapped at her. “He deserted when he liked, without consequence. He  _ might _ have done it when ordered to kill an innocent boy.” 

 

“I relished it and I’d do it again,” Sandor added, clearly not eager to help with Vevynne’s efforts. “Stop while you’re ahead, girl.” 

 

She had no allies here, no sympathetic cause to back her other than her own self-interest, but that made her no different from anyone else present. 

 

“I won’t contest any of that. Nevertheless, this man is sworn to me as protector by oath. In a true, worthy trial I’d have right to argue my claim. I have no desire to see my servant taken from me before he has fulfilled his purpose.”

 

The eye-patched man, identified as Beric Dondarrion, nodded in concession. “Your claim is noted by the Lord of Light. It will be left to  _ his _ final judgement.”  

 

Sandor was eying her with a sideways, doubtful stare, to which she hoped her glare of daggers in return would be warning enough that he should keep his mouth shut. There had been no formal oath, they both  _ knew _ this, but the truth of the circumstances would do them no favors here.

 

“Then advise your Lord to note my terms as claimant over this man. If he should be the victor of the trial by combat it shall be considered a successful protection over my life and fate. I will be allowed to leave with him, without issue.” 

 

The Brotherhood looked to each other, discussed and argued the matter in private, hushed debate. It reminded her so much of the trials in King’s Landing, which came as a small sense of satisfaction for how these men thought themselves  _ so different  _ from the customs of the highborne. Beric, however, silenced them.

 

“The terms are fair,” he agreed. “We are servants to his will. If he sees further purpose in Sandor Clegane and blesses the oath made to you we will have no choice. You’ll be granted your claim.” 

 

It was the best offer she was going to get, that much was clear. Though the outcome was perhaps already decided by Sandor’s strength and history as a man not left defeated by one so small as Beric Dondarrion, Vevynne felt it necessary to make one last request. 

 

“If I may speak some words of encouragement to my champion?” 

 

This she was granted as well, albeit cheered on by jeers and whoops of things like ‘give him a little kiss for good luck!’, ‘one more good fuck before he dies!’ as she sauntered over to him, cut the ropes from his arms herself. 

 

“If you botch this,” she warned in a terse whisper. “I will finish you off myself before the  _ Lord of Light _ has any say. If you win...you owe me a  _ farm’s worth _ of chickens.” 

 

He gave her a wan smile. “My debt is noted.” 

 

The two men squared off then, Sandor being granted a shield and Beric managing to set his sword aflame with a power Vevynne could only describe as unholy, perhaps even unfair. No, in King’s Landing it would’ve been unfair; here they were at the mercy and terms of the supposed Lord, one that  _ if _ real couldn’t have had any sympathy for The Hound. It was a good thing  _ she _ didn’t believe then, but the fear of flame was clear in his eyes as Beric lunged at him with the fire. 

 

The trial was like nothing she’d seen before. It was feral, untamed, no rules to keep anyone in line or prevent Beric from setting Sandor’s shield on fire. The men chanted his guilt, over and over, as he panicked and lost his nerve, scrambling to remove the burning shield from his arm as Beric saw his opportunity and advanced on him. Arya  _ pleaded _ for his death. 

 

Perhaps in a fit of desperation his eyes searched for hers, found them across from him wreathed in flame. She wouldn’t let her genuine fear of these odds taint her gaze, resolving to him unspoken that he  _ would _ win this or she would make good on her promise and it would be far less merciful than anything a God could conjure up. 

 

Either intimidated by her or resolved not be killed by Beric _ fucking  _ Dondarrion, Sandor roared, pushed past the flames that licked up the side of his face, sliced into his enemy’s shoulder as if it was a lovely piece of cake. 

 

That was it then. 

 

In a fit of rage Arya made an attempt to do the job Beric couldn’t, running at him full-tilt like an angered goblin. Her blacksmith friend managed to subdue her before she could get to him, which was fortunate as Vevynne didn’t wish to add another Stark to the grave, particularly one so young. She couldn’t help but admire the girl’s tenacity. 

* * *

  
They were led away again, sacked as before, and dropped close to where they’d been taken at the Inn. The Lord of Light may have seen fit to spare Sandor death at Beric’s hands (as well as reincarnation for the latter) but there was bigger punishment to be had from her. She hadn’t abandoned her anger in all the excitement, nor had his victory done anything to make it ebb. Once the Brotherhood had left she slapped him clear across the face. 

 

“You stupid cunt,” she spat. “I told you  _ two pints _ , no more.” 

 

He didn’t take kindly to this, even if her weak strike had done little more than startle him as would a flea bite. He grabbed her wrist. 

 

“Let’s get one thing painfully clear,” His grip tightened. She thought he might break her bones, _  could _ have if he wanted to. “I don’t belong to you. You don’t serve me orders. You’re here only by my admittance. Try my patience again and I’ll leave you tied to the nearest tree, let either the wolves or lions have at you, whichever comes first.” 

 

He released her then, turned on his heel to make it clear there’d be no further discussion of the matter. Vevynne was far from done with him, however. 

 

“Those bastards nearly had me shipped back to King’s Landing, all because of your love of drink. I would sooner you strike me down here and now than go back to what I was.” 

 

“What you  _ are _ !” he snarled back. “Look at you- flouncing about, thinking you can have whatever you want from whoever you want at your word. You’re still every bit a Lannister bitch, even without your gold and finery. You wanted out of that life? Then leave it. Stop making demands as if the world is made to serve you. Take what you want or die trying, like the rest of us.” 

 

Try as she might to think of something else to throw at him he’d left her at a loss for words. She may have been stubborn and self-righteous, but she knew deep inside that he was right and there was nothing she could say to counter him that would change that. 

 

He began walking back in the direction they’d came from and she felt herself panic a moment. Was he leaving her?

 

“Where are you going?” An attempt to demand an explanation, though the words were uneven, broken on her lips. 

 

“After the Brotherhood. Idiots didn’t take care to hide their hoofprints in the mud.”

 

She couldn’t wrap her mind around the logic of that. “You’re going  _ back _ ? We just escaped-!” 

 

“I’m taking the Stark girl. She’ll make an attempt to slip from them sooner or later. Her family’s at Riverrun and we need the gold.” 

 

The fact that he used the term ‘we’ was more encouraging for her than it should’ve been, considering their spat. She took it as invitation enough to follow him. What other choice did she have, really? 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vevynne finds a weapon, an unlikely friendship forms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Arya&Vevynne stuff here than anything else but I felt it necessary to establish that relationship along this timeline as well. Also some bathroom humor? All tasteful, I promise.

They kept a safe distance from the Brotherhood for a day or two, watching without being seen. It was far easier said than done when one was as large as Sandor Clegane and being that she’d had experience sneaking around King’s Landing, overhearing conversations around doorways without being detected, it was a bit of usefulness she could lend in creeping closer to their camp than he. In the vein of keeping a low profile and not being spotted as easily through leaves she had elected to tie up her golden locks completely, hidden away in a brown headscarf. 

 

Why she hadn’t the presence of mind to think of that before she would never know, perhaps still stupid and arrogant from her time at the Keep. She was learning; it was all she could ask of herself. 

 

She kept her eyes trained on Arya, noticing once or twice the girl’s rather masterful use of a bow. Vevynne found herself intrigued by the weapon. It was inevitable she would have to master some kind of defensive combat as long as they were out in the open wilderness (which might have been a very long time at this rate). Sandor was better than she’d ever be with brute strength and a large sword, but perhaps her area of expertise could be found in archery? It would help with hunting, distant attacks on an enemy. Perhaps the Stark girl could teach her. 

 

It was an idea, anyway. 

 

In her time observing she was also given updates on the going’s on at King’s Landing; the Lannisters had succeeded the Battle of the Blackwater, Uncle Twyin had come through at the eleventh hour with an army that overwhelmed the Baratheons. No one would’ve spoken directly of the fate of some random squire but she had to believe her brother survived- for  _ now _ . It was bittersweet news as she didn’t wish death or worse on any member of her immediate family, but a Lannister victory meant inevitable concern for where she was. Lord Varys would most likely have known she wasn’t dead or kidnapped, he would have known whom she had left with and that meant bounties. She could only hope her existence remained the afterthought it had always been when she was present.  

 

True to Sandor’s word the Stark girl did eventually escape the camp, though it was more of an impulsive, rushed decision than a calculated slip. Vevynne had been hoping for the latter, as with the camp coming back to claim their prize with torches there wasn’t time to wake Sandor and have him seize her as planned. 

 

Vevynne pulled the skinning knife from her skirts, took advantage when Arya had her back pressed to a tree. 

 

“Don’t scream,” she whispered, her hand covering her mouth, the blade against her neck. “I’m not supposed to kill you.”  

 

* * *

  
  


Arya Stark was none too pleased about exchanging one hostage situation for another, particularly as her captors were the Hound and a Lannister. In this Vevynne didn’t blame her, though the attempt on Sandor’s life as he slept was not something she could take in stride. 

 

“Don’t,” she warned, the tip of her skinning knife against the girl’s back as she held a rock high in the air. “I’m not  _ supposed _ to kill you. I don’t  _ want  _ to kill you.”   

 

“That’s a lie,” Arya accused. “A Lannister will always relish killing a Stark.” 

 

“I am  _ not _ my family,” she countered. “And if that were true here, wouldn’t I have done it already? Wouldn’t I have done it in the woods? I  _ don’t _ want to, but I can’t have you harming my protection.” 

 

“Kill me, kill each other,” Sandor grumbled, not as asleep as either of them had thought. “Either way, bloody well get it over with so I can either die or sleep in peace. There’s nothing worse than the quarreling of women.” 

 

They of course did neither of these things, electing instead to back off and save the argument for another day. In truth Vevynne had no quarrel with Arya and didn’t wish to. The more she saw of the young girl the more she admired- such strength and determination in one so small, it would have been impossible to feel otherwise. Perhaps there was a part of her that wanted Arya to like her back, however unlikely that was to happen. 

 

Still, when Sandor made mention of their rescue of Sansa, she was quick to rally against Arya’s doubt. 

 

“It’s true. What The Hound fails to mention is that I fought off the majority of them, tried to lead her to safety before that.” 

 

“And how well did you and your pitchfork fare in the end?” he scoffed. “Even so, it’s the truth. Your sister saved by the Hound and a Lannister. You see, people aren’t made of clear cut lines of good and evil.” 

 

“It would be far more convenient if we were,” Vevynne acknowledged, a look of sympathy in Arya’s direction. 

 

She found the girl had been looking at her before this, studying her and Sandor as if to find clarity in this unfamiliar ambiguity. Arya ripped her eyes away, played it off as if she’d always been looking out towards the Red Fork.  

* * *

  
  


They wrote their story when they came upon the hog farmer; Arya was the child, Sandor the father and she, the mother. It wasn’t a role unknown to her. Having three younger brothers whose parents were distant and uninvolved in the way that was custom for highborne Lannisters left the affection to her. It was she that often calmed them when they awoke with nightmares, she that dressed and kissed their scrapes, she that mourned in the way mothers should when their boys choose a life of steel and probable death. 

 

That said, she didn’t think it likely Arya was going to participate in that charade beyond the circumstantial titles. That didn’t stop her from thinking that if she was ever to have a daughter she’d consider herself a lucky mother if she had half of Arya’s strength. 

 

Arya seemed to intimidate the Hound as fire did; Vevynne had only seen true fear on his face when confronted with flame and the threat of having a sword put through his eye and out the back of his skull. Some might have called that weakness and she supposed it was, in a sense...but there was strength too in having and showing vulnerability. It was more than she’d seen from him before and though he was meant to be her protection, unstoppable against all odds, she found herself with a strange curiosity to discover more. 

 

There would be time enough for that later. They agreed it was best she kept her distance while Arya was delivered during the wedding, as even with her hair concealed and all lion sigils gone it was possible she’d be identified, taken as captive or worse. None of them needed that kind of complication at this stage of the plan. 

 

Little did they know a much bigger wrinkle would face them, the kind that ended in a mass of flames and blood from what she could see from her vantage point on the hill. Fearing the worst for what may have happened to her traveling companions and resolved that a skinning knife would not aid her in the long term, she risked a closer proximity to the battle to pilfer a bow and quiver of arrows from a fallen soldier on the outskirts of the fray. She’d teach herself if need be, keep to the shadows of the wilderness. 

 

Sandor had instructed her if that anything went awry she was to meet him back where they made camp, wait a day at most and leave if she saw no sight of him. Vevynne prepared to wait through the night, into the dawn and afternoon, praying that fortune would continue to favor them. 

 

It did, in a sense, as it wasn’t long before she got back that Sandor (with an intact Arya) arrived on horseback. The cart of salt pork had been lost, the least of their worries as it would turn out. 

 

“Too late,” he explained. In his hand was a protective Frey banner. 

 

“The Freys turned? That makes no sense, they were sworn to-” 

 

He gave her an impatient, incredulous look. How could the obvious stare her straight in the eye without her realizing the cold, painful truth? Ever the Lannister bitch. 

 

* * *

  
  


Vevynne learned more of what happened at the wedding when they passed a group of men at camp, bragging about how and whom had strung up Robb Stark’s direwolf head to his shoulders. The description made her stomach churn with guilt and disgust. Though it may not have been the direct work of Lannisters it had her family’s stink all over it, worse still that Arya was having to relive the moment in the words of grotesque braggards. 

 

Their eyes caught one another as she rode her horse alongside Sandor’s, and it in that moment an unspoken understanding passed between them. If she was Lannister still, despite everything, she’d repay the debt as best she could. 

 

She untied her hair, tossed away her cloak, stopped her horse and loosened the ties of her bodice before slinking her way over to the camp. Arya followed suit before Sandor had time to argue otherwise. 

 

“Gentlemen,” she greeted, propping a foot up on one of the logs so her skirts fell away from her leg. “I don’t suppose you have rations to share for a starving woman.” 

 

They were transfixed by her, likely because it was the first and  _ most _ of a woman they’d seen in quite awhile. That was to the advantage, as they hadn’t even the presence of mind to hear or notice Arya sneaking up from behind, dagger unsheathed. 

 

“Depends on what you’re willing to trade for it,” the one who’d been boasting the most said, bold enough to make to get up and come over to her. She instead came to him, straddled his lap and sat him back down on the log- right where Arya needed him. 

 

“ _ Anything _ ,” she purred. “I know how to make a man happy. Will it be all at once then or one at a time?” 

 

She didn’t get a direct answer, as the man was too preoccupied with making himself at home on her breasts, shoving his face in and pawing at her bodice to open it completely. She seized his head to keep him there, long enough for Arya to grab hold. Vevynne shoved him back and let Arya have her way, stabbing him to a bloodied pulp in the throat and chest. 

 

The men were too stunned to act right away, stumbling over to her dazed enough for Vevynne to get her skinning knife in one’s stomach. Sandor made quick work of the rest. 

 

“Your first?” he asked Arya of her kill. 

She nodded. “First man.”

 

He then rounded on Vevynne as she laced herself back up to modesty. 

 

“Alright...whose bloody idea was this?” Though his accusatory look at her suggested he’d already decided who was most culpable. 

 

Luckily for Vevynne, she’d become a master of the feigned innocence. 

 

“A bit of both, I suppose,” she shrugged, her eyes as wide and dubious as a doe’s. 

 

He scoffed, yanked away the knife Arya had stolen and wiped it clean.

 

“If either of you plan to do something like that again,  _ tell  _ me first.”  And then he continued to grumble something about having at least found an established campsite and the impulsiveness of women. 

 

Arya’s eyes drifted to Vevynne’s. She was a bit startled, but not  _ surprised _ to see that something in them had changed.  

 

The younger girl simply nodded to her in gratitude. Vevynne reciprocated. It was a small, but perhaps significant moment in Lannister-Stark relations, one that would most assuredly never make the history books.

* * *

 

They were paused for a moment, not to make camp but rather to allow Sandor time to answer nature behind a rock. It often took awhile and the two of them had agreed unspoken that it was best to keep a distance from his necessities, awkwardly loud as they often were. 

 

“It’s all the ale,” Vevynne smirked, when not even a modest ways away could shield them from the noises. “I tell him to drink more water, but well...stubborn as ever. He’d have gout by now if he wasn’t so active.” 

 

“You care for him,” Arya observed. It wasn’t a question. “He isn’t just your protector and servant, is he? Something more, perhaps.” 

 

Vevynne grit her jaw. She always did when she intended to hide something, but what she meant to keep secret it was difficult to pinpoint. They still snuck away at times for physical pleasures, the Stark girl knew this (and often complained about it). 

 

“He’s neither of those things,” Vevynne conceded. “He’s made that very clear.” 

 

She expected more of an interrogation, but Arya Stark was not the same as the people she’d known in King’s Landing. She said nothing else, continued to water dance with her sword as elegant as a beautiful, deadly swan. 

 

“You’re quite good with a bow,” Vevynne said after a time. “I saw you in the Brotherhood’s camp.” 

 

Arya shrugged. “I’m alright. It’s not my preferred weapon.” 

 

“You’re better than me. That is to say anyone who knew how to properly  _ hold _ a bow would be better than me. I was wondering if you might consider...being my instructor.” 

 

Arya stopped, stared her down, disbelieving. She reminded him of Sandor in that way. 

 

“ _ You _ want to learn archery?”

 

“I think it could be useful. Sandor’s the master with the big sword, you’re a little assassin of your own with the dagger. An archer could hunt, spear an enemy from afar. I’m not bad at sneaking around, keeping hidden. Living with Lannisters requires these things.” 

 

The mention of the name made Arya grimace. Sometimes, it seemed, the two of them forgot their names and who they were or had been and remained only two girls on the road, working together to survive. House politics and all the horrors that had passed between them reigned supreme nevertheless. 

 

“Why would _ I  _ instruct a Lannister on how to use a weapon? I think your kind has done enough damage.” 

 

Vevynne smiled sadly, wiped her hands clean of the river water she’d been washing some of their fabrics in. 

 

“That’s fair,” she agreed. “You have no reason to trust me.  _ I _ have no defense other than that I didn’t choose the family I was born into. Had I been given that choice I wouldn’t have been a Lannister, that’s a promise. Had I relished that life I wouldn’t be here on the road.” 

 

Arya continued her personal training, maybe ignoring her entirely, maybe only pretending to. 

 

“I think we’re alike in that way,” Vevynne continued nonetheless, approaching her but keeping a safe, respectful distance from the blade. “I don’t think either of us would’ve chosen to be women. Who would, really? There are many things beyond on our control...I’d just like to think that as reluctant women of high birth we have  _ some _ control over our own destiny. I think, like you...I don’t want to die cowering and helpless as we’re taught to do.” 

 

There was a beat before she got a reply, having to wait for Arya to finish her final dance before sheathing Needle. 

 

“Do you have one?” Arya asked, her back turned to her. “A bow, I mean.” 

 

Vevynne brightened a bit. “I do, as it happens.” She would save the explanation for where and how she had gotten it for another day. 

 

“That’s convenient.” Arya finally turned to face her. “10 minutes a day, no more. That’s my offer.” 

 

Vevynne smiled and they shook on it to solidify the arrangement. Right on cue Sandor appeared again, still in the middle of tying himself back up. He didn’t fail to notice their deal-sealing handshake. 

 

“What are you two plotting now?” he sighed, more tired than suspicious. 

 

Arya threw him the canteen in reply. 

 

“Drink more water. For all our sakes.” 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trio of travelers meet a farmer and his daughter. Vevynne gets a small taste of what a different life might be life.

Vevynne and Arya pursued archery training as agreed, when time allowed. Expectedly she struggled at first with proper posture, nocking the arrow, aim...all of it, really. The Stark girl remained a good, patient teacher nevertheless and Vevynne hung on her every word and instruction, eager to become proficient in something beyond domestic tasks. She practiced on her own too, when they stopped to make camp, when Arya had to devote time to her own defensive art. Sandor thus found himself sandwiched between _ two _ women in his company devoted to perfecting their craft. 

 

“So it’s to be a bow for you then,” he observed one evening after they had stopped to make camp. He’d sat himself on a nearby rock, watching her as she aimed at trees. 

 

Vevynne smirked, nocked and loosed the arrow, but missed the particular knot on the tree bark she’d been aiming for. She muttered a small ‘damn’ before turning to him. 

 

“I know you don’t likely don’t approve, but we can’t all be the pillar of strength that you are. Armor and a  _ big fucking sword _ would do me little good.” 

 

He shrugged. “It’s not a man’s weapon for that reason. A woman’s, however…” 

 

“I’ll take that as a bit of physical logistics rather than a disparaging of my gender.” 

 

She made to go retrieve the arrow a few steps away, but he did it before she could get very far. 

 

“Still needs work,” he decided, handing it back to her. “But between your knife and this, you won’t need me much longer.” 

 

It was as close to a compliment as she was going to get from him, and though there was flattery in this a sense of regret came with it as well. They hadn’t spoken much of what would happen after Arya was secured in the Vale and their objective complete. Though they had begun this impulsive journey as something akin to master-servant, the latter of which served  _ all _ her physical needs, she knew it’d be naive to pretend something more hadn’t grown between them. A friendship? Maybe. 

 

She knew only that he was much more now than The Hound, much more than an object of lust she hungered for as one does pigeon pie. She hadn’t thought much of his layers as a person before this, true, but they had still revealed themselves, little by little. They were all of them flayed open over the course of their trip, try as they might to keep hidden.

 

“I don’t know about that,” she said, stowing her arrows in the quiver and coming to sit beside him on the rock. “A bow and arrow and a knife would still have very little chance if I were, say, surrounded.” 

 

He took a swig from the flagon of water- not so much because she and Arya had scolded him but because they had long ago run out of any alternative. 

 

“You should get yourself somewhere safe then. Do you have  _ any  _ kind of plan for what you’ll do after we reach the Vale?” 

 

She scoffed out a laugh at her own lack of foresight. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I know I should, you don’t have to say it.” 

 

They sat for a moment in an uncertain silence, concerns passing between them that neither of them seemed brave enough to mention. 

 

“What do  _ you _ plan to do then?” she asked after a time. 

 

He hesitated from answering right away and she wasn’t sure if that was due to a lack of having thought about it before or a reluctance to tell her. 

 

“Considered work as a sellsword- the Second Sons out of Essos might have me.” 

 

That was most certainly a path she could not follow and  _ why _ did that bother her? 

 

“A solid plan,” she commended. “I trust you’ll miss my female company out there. You said it yourself, you don’t fuck whores.” 

 

“There’s a lot I don’t do,” he agreed, handing her the flagon before rising again. 

 

* * *

 

They came across a small family some time later, a farmer and his young daughter on a bit of land they had hoped to use to water the horses. This encounter required another assumption of their false identities as mother, father and child, though Sandor wasn’t quite the actor he needed to be to buy the belief of this particular audience. 

 

“Forgive my father,” Arya apologized. “He was wounded fighting in the war. Our cottage burned down while he was gone.” 

 

“He hasn’t been the same since,” Vevynne agreed. “We do love him dearly, but war can change a man beyond physical scars.” 

 

It was Arya who correctly supplied the answer of the Tullys of Rivverrun when the farmer asked whom he had fought for. That bit of cleverness earned them a roof over their head during the coming storm and the promise of dinner. 

 

Vevynne took to the daughter quickly, as she very often did with young children. It had been pointed out to her many times before at both King’s Landing and Casterly Rock that she had no place kneeling among toys and babes in the nursery, dirtying her dresses to teach them how to make mud pies, but here there was no one to say otherwise. Sally was rather shy and reluctant to answer Vevynne’s questions, but she did allow her to help with the making of the rabbit stew while Arya and Sandor stabled the horses. 

 

“I was never much of a cook,” Vevynne admitted as she chopped up carrots. “But I do what I can. My dear husband has  _ such _ an appetite I’ve no choice but to cook and do a great deal of it. My daughter too, for that matter- she is so like him. You see, this is why I thought it only fitting I help you prepare.” 

 

She then moved on the rabbits she’d caught for them, skinning each one as quickly as peeling a hot potato. She’d had a lot of practice to this point (there  _ was _ truth in the fact that Arya and Sandor had large appetites, at least). Sally watched her. 

 

“My father usually does that part.” 

 

“Darling girl, you don’t know how?” Vevynne asked, incredulous. “A woman who prides herself on her rabbit stew  _ must _ know how to prepare the most important ingredient.” 

 

Sally shrugged and knelt down beside her as she began bleeding them into a bucket. “Unless I’m chopping vegetables or herbs he doesn’t feel a girl is suited to wield a knife. Or see blood.” 

 

Vevynne smirked to herself. “Women may not go to war, but we do see a great deal of blood, my love. You’ll know what I mean in time.” 

 

She handed her a rabbit and one of the knives, began a bit of instruction of her own. The most she could do was pass on her knowledge from one girl to the next, subtly defying the expectations held for them in ways one wouldn’t suspect. Dinner preparation, for instance. 

 

The farmer took no issue to this, however, instead thanking her for spending time with Sally after they had finally gotten the stew on the fire to boil. 

 

“She hasn’t had a motherly presence here in quite a long time,” he explained. “I regret the things I can’t teach her as a father.” 

 

“You should consider getting remarried,” Vevynne offered with a cheeky smile. “You could do well for yourself.” 

 

The farmer thanked her for the flattery, one she didn’t mind offering as he had a purity in his eyes she wasn’t accustomed to with men on the road. Or anywhere, really. There was no lustful or malicious intent and she’d soon discover why. 

“It seems the obvious solution, of course...but there hasn’t been another since my wife. I don’t know that I could offer my heart to another in the way she deserved.” 

 

“That’s very romantic,” Vevynne commended. “You must have loved her a great deal.” 

 

He nodded, gave a solemn gaze out the windows. The farmer had naturally sad eyes, she noticed, and she couldn’t help but wonder if they’d always been that way or if there was a time they shone bright and hopeful. 

 

“Your husband,” he mentioned after a time. “He seems a force to be reckoned with.” 

 

She laughed and looked pointedly into the fire. 

 

“He is, but you mustn’t let him frighten you. He has the gentlest, purest heart I’ve ever known.” 

 

“You love him a great deal as well,” the farmer observed. “I can see it in your eyes.” 

 

That startled her a bit, she didn’t think herself  _ that _ good of an actress.  She couldn’t exactly argue the point either, as it was necessary everyone present believed the charade as the inarguable truth. Perhaps it was just the happiness of the moment manifesting itself.  _ Surely _ that was all. 

 

Before she could say one way or the other, the farmer offered, “Do you think he’d have interest staying here for a while? Winter is coming and I don’t know that I can harvest quick enough on my own. That says nothing of the bandits on the road these days and I’m not much with a sword, but I doubt they’d try their luck if they got a look at him. I  _ do _ have some silver stowed away.” 

 

“He’d cleave them in two if they did,” she said with full confidence, which made the farmer swallow thickly in what she assumed was intimidation. 

 

“You and your daughter would be welcome too, of course. Sally likes you, I’m sure it would be good for her to have another child to play with and a...mother of sorts for a time.” 

 

She smiled at the thought. It was a tempting one, ever increasing. 

 

“You’d have to ask him, of course, but I doubt he’ll refuse. We could use the money.” 

 

“I will. I realize the man is the head of the house and makes the final decision...but I’m wise enough to know the wife pulls the strings. I had to seek your counsel first.” 

 

She smiled ever brighter at this. 

 

“You are a rare kind of man, indeed. We  _ will _ stay.” 

* * *

  
  


True to her promise Sandor agreed to the man’s offer at dinner- which was fortunate, as he and Arya made quick, sloppy work of the stew she and Sally had slaved over, that the farmer himself had worked months on for harvest. All to be repaid in time, she promised, apologized, but ate in quiet contentment over. She’d been told so long as a Lannister that this kind of simple life, lived off the land and one’s hands, was as undesirable as they came. 

 

She, however, hadn’t known an evening more enjoyable, even as the storm pounded at the windows and raindrops leaked in through the thatched roof. 

 

An idea had been germinating in her mind, one she brought carefully to Sandor that night as they settled into the barn opposite Arya’s. They had every intention of taking advantage of the privacy and were polite enough to consider her sensibilities. 

 

“It’s not a bad life,” she suggested as he pulled free the strings of her bodice.  

 

He grunted in disagreement. “You’ve only lived it for one evening. You haven’t been here when the bandits come looking for spoils. If we’re fortunate we won’t be here to see the Winter.” 

 

He pulled her into his lap, his manhood hard and insistent against the inner join of her leg. He wasn’t eager to talk right now, but then  _ when _ was he? Now she had the added benefit of having him under her sway. 

 

“The world is full of horrors,” she argued. “Is a handful of bandits truly worse than an army pressing against a Keep? Being warned of rape and certain death at the hands of the opposing soldiers?”

 

He seized her hips, his grip tighter than it typically was. 

 

“He’s in need of a wife. If you’re so enamored with the life why don’t you ask him to marry you?” 

 

It wasn’t a genuine suggestion, made all the more obvious by his derisive tone of voice. She had to wonder then if his increasing strength on her body was caused by irritation for her to stop chattering and give them what they both wanted or a sense of possessiveness. 

 

“He’s a good man, but not my type.” 

 

“No, I suppose not.” He turned them over, flipped her on her back, and though she expected he would enter her fully then he instead glided a hand down her stomach, rough fingers through her heat. “You like them big, mean and ugly.” 

It made perfect sense he’d describe himself that way, she thought, though having seen the farmer’s eyes that spoke of a hidden pain and looking up into Sandor’s now, lit only by the faint flame of the lantern, it occurred to her that he had them too. 

 

“Big, yes,” she agreed, gasping a bit when two fingers slid into her. “Mean...perhaps on the surface.” She then chanced a hand where she’d never touched before, the mottling scars on the right side of his face. He flinched but did not pull away. “I’ve never thought it ugly. Beautiful and terrible, perhaps.” 

 

He said nothing to this, merely crooked his grip inside her to grace that spot he’d showed her so long ago, making her back arch off the ground. He then lifted her hips, spread her legs open to rest on his shoulders, and his head moved between her legs.  _ This _ was new, both to her and their time together as...whatever it was they were. 

 

“Sandor…” she breathed, hesitant. She’d heard of this being done before, though the concept seemed barbaric, surely no man-...oh yes.  _ One _ man, it seemed. She took a gentle fistful of his hair in wonder that a mouth could do such things. His unshaven face provided a delicious contrast to the silken work of his tongue on that which vexed her most. 

 

She wasn’t long for the world once he began his ministrations; soon into it all she was coming hard and as loud as she’d allow against the noise of the storm. 

 

He rose, wiped his mouth the same as he did after eating or drinking (a sign that whatever it had been, he’d enjoyed) and came to lie down next to her with no apparent intention of asking for more. For a moment, she was aghast. His need still lay hard and big against his furred stomach and it wasn’t like him not to seek his own satisfaction. 

 

“You can’t expect to sleep like that,” she scolded, taking matters (and  _ him _ ) into her own hands.

 

She guided him to turn towards her, wet and wrapped her hand around the length of him that she hadn’t realized before was so sizable her fingers couldn’t meet. They faced each other this way, though he didn’t seem capable of meeting her gaze as she began to stroke him in long, purposeful waves. He had the added benefit and excuse of closing his eyes against the pleasure- a sure sign she was doing this properly. 

 

It was the first time he was allowing her to take responsibility for his own pleasure and whether that had been planned or was just the outcome of the moment she was touched by it nonetheless. He may have been in dire need of it, he was often so eager and quick when it came to his own ends, but she took her time in the interest of allowing him to enjoy the moment as he had given her. 

 

There was a sense of selfishness here on her part as well, as she hadn’t yet gotten the chance to watch him, really  _ watch _ him, in the throes. She studied the ways his face softened and moved, his brow relaxing and knitting and going back and forth in this way depending on how she touched him. She noted how his breath quickened in the short rise and falls of his broad chest. 

 

His hand found her breast, but rather than squeezing hard as he normally did he instead kneaded and massaged it in his palm. She couldn’t lie to herself and say that she didn’t love how their hands felt against one another with such a discrepancy of size and texture. Where he was impossibly large and wonderfully calloused, she was small and smooth from lack of hardship. Even with this polar difference between them they fit together as if their bodies had been crafted to do so. 

 

She eventually increased her speed on him, added another hand and gripped more firmly, guiding him as she could to the end she felt he deserved. It didn’t take terribly long after this. She gazed at him as his breath hitched, the smallest of moans fell from his mouth, and he released hot and wet over her hands and his own chest. 

 

In this moment she was  _ certain _ he was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen, and in this discovery was a pang of fear. It didn’t compare, however, to when his eyelids finally fluttered open and their gazes met and she saw his defenses stripped away, his soul bared open in a way it hadn’t been before. 

 

The farmer’s words came back to her. 

 

‘ _ You love him a great deal as well. I can see it in your eyes. _ ’

 

What might Sandor have read in hers, here and now? 

 

A part of her wanted to turn away and run from that which was closing in on her, something she hadn’t realized she’d been running from until this moment. He didn’t give her a chance to choose between fight or flight, as his hand moved up her spine and pulled her into a languid kiss of a kind they hadn’t shared before. 

 

* * *

  
  
  


Vevynne resolved that she’d keep trying to push the idea to him the next morning, that while their time here would be limited due to their ultimate goal of reaching the Vale it might not have been outlandish to consider an alternative. Did he truly he want to be a sellsword or was it the only option he felt he had? All he thought himself good at? She’d remind him there was a time she didn’t think  _ her _ skills extended beyond needlepoint and eavesdropping. Everyone had room to grow and change, surely. Perhaps if she suggested raising some chickens. 

 

Ultimately it didn’t matter, as she awoke to two screaming girls (Sally in horror, Arya in anger), the farmer struck bloody on the head and Sandor making off with the promised wages. As Arya was already yelling at him the way she wished to be, she instead came to the side of the small family. 

 

“I’m so sorry,” she attempted. “My-...my husband, he’s just-” 

 

“He has a  _ gentle soul _ , does he?” he challenged. “That man is a  _ beast _ .” 

 

She had no place to argue otherwise, instead offering them what coin she had taken from Sansa’s room in a small attempt to make amends. It wasn’t enough to cover what Sandor had stolen but it would have to do. 

 

Where Arya was loud and angry towards him, Vevynne said nothing. Nothing at all. She maintained this silence as they resumed their course on the road and for many hours forward, pretending she didn’t see Sandor chance looks at her every so often. 

 

“Any work I could’ve offered them would’ve been time wasted on everyone,” he said eventually, apropos of nothing. “Winter will claim them, just as it will all weak men.” 

 

“It might not have,” she argued, gritting her teeth. “If you had kept to your agreement and helped them with the harvest. He had hoped you would help him build up the store.” 

 

“It’s not just a matter of food. It’s the cold, the monsters that crawl out when the Long Night sets in. They had no chance.” 

 

“If that soothes your conscience then so be it.” 

 

She was angry at his actions, of course, in as much of an internal fury as Arya had been out loud, but more than that she was disappointed. His next choice of words would only add heartbreak to that pile. 

 

“It was a fantasy, a moment’s respite from the reality of things. Nothing more.” 

 

He rode on ahead of her then, leaving her to blink back burning tears. How tempting it was to pull out her bow and arrow, shoot him clear through the skull and eye socket as Arya had threatened to do. 

 

She hesitated only because she knew it would not bring her any sense of long lasting relief. Her heart was claimed, on that much she had to be honest. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uncomfortable truths come to light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fellas I'm all caught up on GoT officially, now in uncertain hell with the rest of you. Good news is I have the plot for this story planned out to where we are in season 8 and as my creative juices seem to be flowing consistently I hope to get out chapters just as quick. Prayer circle for Sandor in the episodes to come, yes?

Vevynne continued on with them, though the thought had often occurred to her to leave; maybe in the night, maybe an outright claim of departure with no long goodbyes. It was of no concern to her to be invisible at the Red Keep, the last thought of any of her fellow Lannisters, but it became evident over the course of this venture that she could not  _ stand _ being of no consequence to him. 

 

It had been evident all over her, her eyes betrayed her to strangers (however insightful those strangers might have been). She was in love with Sandor Clegane and no amount of reason or logic was going to change that, nor the fact that he did not bear any interest in reciprocating those feelings. She didn’t know if it was a true case of unrequited love or merely stubbornness on his part not to give himself over. 

 

What they had shared that night in the barn felt real, mutual, deeper than anything they’d known before. It was difficult to look back on that moment and not believe the same spell had fallen over them both. 

 

But as he had said- just a fantasy. A moment’s reprieve, a breath of warm summer air gone as soon as it had come. She supposed there was nothing for it but to make peace with that. In doing so, she knew, their moments alone could not continue. She couldn’t go back to the meaningless trysts meant only to relieve physical tension. Thus, when he’d approach her in expectation she’d refuse him and he never bothered to ask why. 

 

That, she guessed, was confirmation enough. 

 

She resolved that when the time came, when they crossed paths with a proper village or city, maybe when they got to the docks so that he could cross the sea for Essos she’d leave him then. For Arya’s sake alone and for seeing her safely to the bosom of her family she’d remain where she was. 

 

As with all things though, the best laid plans often went awry. She hadn’t expected circumstances to change as drastically as they did when they met with a dying man, another innocent merchant fallen under the ever moving wheel of the wars of the rich. He was one of many casualties the Lannisters and the like could pin to their never ending game. The more Vevynne saw of the carnage, the gladder she was to not be a part of it any longer. For that much, at least, she could be still grateful to The Hound. 

 

They all took vigil around him for reasons probably none of them knew, other than his being a symbol of pathetic, unsuspecting innocence. 

 

It was pointed out to him that his wound was grave (this he knew) and then asked why he continued to go on, to which all he could say was, “habit”. She supposed that was as good a reason as any to hold on to an impossible situation. When it was all one had ever known, what else did one do without facing that fear of the unknown? 

Arya revealed her identity somewhere in the course of that conversation, Sandor admitted to being her captor taking her in for ransom. The man didn’t frown on this, but rather commended them for pursuing a fair deal, something, he claimed, seemed to longer exist in the world as they knew it now. 

 

Vevynne took his hand, endeared to him and the simple truths he spoke. 

 

“Is there anything we can do?” she asked, though it was obvious saving him to live another day would not be a reasonable request. He was beyond that, she suspected, advanced in his years of what had likely been a difficult life. Ready to die, in his own way. 

 

“Could I have a drink? Dying is thirsty work.” 

 

Sandor helped him drink from the flagon of water before she could look over to him or ask. There was sympathy and regret in his eyes, the kind one might have expected to see in a caring nurse on the battlefield. Her anger and disillusionment made her half-expect him to steal what goods he could find and urge them to leave the man to a slow and painful death, but he did neither. 

 

“Wish it were wine,” the man mused, his voice tired. 

 

“So do I,” Sandor agreed before sticking him clean in the heart with his dagger. 

 

They nodded to each other in understanding and gratitude, the man then slumped into her and Vevynne held him to her chest. 

 

“To die on a woman’s breasts,” the man joked, his words haggard, his breaths weak. “I can think of no finer a thing.” 

 

She watched as the life drained out of his tired eyes, the same concept as when she’d run the men through at King’s Landing but without that sense of satisfaction. She found herself wanting to hold on to it, grasp it against the impossible as one does billowing cloth in high wind. Even still, she was touched by Sandor’s act of mercy. It was the kind he knew how to give- harsh, painful, necessary. 

 

He  _ was _ a good man, despite any efforts to convince everyone else otherwise. 

 

“That’s where the heart is,” he explained to Arya. “That’s how you kill a man.” 

 

He had barely gotten to the end of his sentence before something was on him, attacking, screaming and biting him in the neck. She couldn’t reason out of it was human or beast before he was breaking its neck, throwing the attacker to the ground to reveal that it had been a man. A very  _ foolish _ man. 

He wasn’t alone either, it would turn out. 

 

“The  _ fuck _ are you doing?” Sandor demanded to know from the accomplice, as of now standing there impotent. 

 

“There’s a price on your head.” 

 

“I guess that’s what the King does when you tell him to fuck off.”

 

She knew it was possible, Joffrey’s pride and bloodlust would’ve demanded no less, but they had gone a while without any of this kind of intervention (the kind she feared most) and couldn’t help but wonder if there was more of a motive to it all than that. 

 

“The King’s  _ dead _ ,” the accomplice explained, as if the notion that none of them were already aware was ridiculous. “Drank poison wine at his own wedding. The bounty on you is for the killing of Lannister soldiers and the kidnap of Ser Kevan’s daughter, 400 silver stags.” 

 

He motioned to her and she tried in vain to obscure her face. 

 

“That pretty one there, I suspect. Good job she’s alive, that’s an extra 100.” 

 

“I’m so pleased to hear my life has been bought and paid for,” she scoffed, laying the dead man’s corpse down gently so she could stand back up. It was possible she’d have to fight not to be carted off, after all. “500 for the whole thing. That makes me, what? 250 stags worth?” 

 

Arya shrugged. “It’s nothing to scoff at, really.” 

 

“And you thought you were going to collect it?” Sandor challenged, holding the bite wound on his neck. “You didn’t think very hard did you?” 

 

Evidently not, as it was then Arya identified him as former prisoner that had threatened to fuck her bloody with a stick. She put to good use what she’d just been taught, sticking the man as clean and graceful as one could in the heart. He spurt some blood from his chest before falling head first in the mud. 

 

It wasn’t a lasting sense of victory, not for Vevynne anyway. The fear that she’d been nursing since her departure from King’s Landing had finally caught up to her. How many more bounty hunters would there be for her on their trail? 

 

It complicated matters, to say the least...but cousin Joffrey was dead. It may have been worth sticking around longer if only to have had the pleasure of seeing him choke. 

 

* * *

  
  


She’d overheard snippets of the conversation he and Arya had shared around the fire as he tried in vain to tend to the bite wound. She’d been in a close proximity hunting, gaining more experience with her bow but not paying quite as much attention to her prey as she did to what they were saying. He had adamantly refused the use of fire to cauterize the wound, told the story of how he had gained his facial scarring in way she hadn’t heard it told before. 

 

Everyone knew the tale of the brothers Clegane and the fight for the toy in King’s Landing. It was told as a fearsome sort of child’s bedtime story to instill ever increasing fear of The Mountain and what little regard he had for any life at all, even that of his own kin. No one knew about the father’s lies to protect his elder son. No one knew or cared how alone in the world this had left the younger brother. 

 

She hadn’t wanted her heart to soften for him again. Surely if she built up walls and kept her distance until she could get as far away from him as possible the pain of his rejection would not sting so keenly. 

 

Suddenly, however,  _ her _ pain had become inconsequential. 

 

Vevynne approached him after nightfall, when Arya was asleep and he sat some distance away from the campfire (farther than he normally did). 

 

“You’re not alone,” she corrected, making him jump a bit. “You wouldn’t have to be, at least. The fact that you’d even say such a thing is more insult than you can imagine.” 

 

He sighed heavily, made no attempt to deflect what she alluded to. 

 

“You can’t think of things that way,” he muttered after she had taken a seat beside him in the grass. “ _ I _ can’t. There was never any future in any of it, we both knew that.” 

 

He wasn’t wrong, particularly in light of the news that the Lannisters hadn’t bought her attempt to feign her death and were now on their trail. 

 

“That doesn’t mean I have to lie. It doesn’t mean  _ you _ have to.” 

 

“What good is the truth?” he challenged, though it wasn’t aggressive. “What use is there in  _ pretending _ there was ever any hope?” 

 

“It doesn’t have to be  _ that _ way either. Nothing is certain in life but death itself. Does the fact that they will eventually grow old and die stop couples from marrying? Does it stop us from  _ living _ ?” 

 

He looked to the ground, defeated. She’d never seen him more vulnerable, had never felt more endeared to him. It was clear he wanted to debate the point further despite the fact that this was a battle he was losing. Quite a confident stance to take for one so deep into hopelessness, she thought.

 

She touched the mottled side of his face once again, this time he didn’t flinch at her touch. 

 

“I have only this moment promised to me,” she said softly. “And in this moment I know only that I’m in love with you.”

 

He looked at her, his neck all but snapping from how quickly he had turned his gaze. It was a half glare, perhaps bitter that she’d had the audacity to drag this inconvenient truth out in the open at last, but there was awe and disbelief present as well. 

 

“It isn’t something we have to fear,” she coaxed. “Perhaps one day we will. I don’t know. I don’t care. I don’t have to fear it  _ now _ and neither do you.” 

 

There was a warring in his eyes she could read as clear as the sky above them, but he still failed to act, to say anything. It was true she no longer feared how she felt, but she was afraid of how he’d respond. 

 

‘ _ Please… _ ’ she begged in words unspoken. 

 

“I should’ve never taken you with me,” he breathed after a time. “If I’d known what a simple fuck would become…” 

 

She didn’t know how to interpret that before he was pulling her to him, into his lap, claiming her lips with his own in a way that didn’t feel as insistent as the ones that prefaced their private activities. It burned nonetheless. 

 

He pressed his forehead against hers when they parted for air. 

 

“I would die for you. I’d  _ want _ to die for you. Do you have any fucking idea how terrible and awful that is to realize about another person?” 

 

She moved up to press a kiss to the top of his head, brushed his hair to the side to kiss the mangled burns on his cheek and temple. 

 

“I have some idea, believe me. It’s not a gift I intend to abuse.” 

 

“No, you don’t  _ intend _ to,” he sighed. “But you are who you are. I am who I am. The world will tear us apart sooner rather than later.” 

 

She cupped his stubble-roughened cheeks in her hands, guided his eyes to meet hers. 

 

“Darling man. The world hasn’t done so yet. It isn’t doing so now. That’s entirely my point, don’t you see? We can’t waste what’s been given to us by fearing an unknown future.” 

 

He didn’t seem entirely convinced, still wilting in her grasp like a frightened lamb. She elected to offer a solution. 

 

“Make love to me,” she whispered against his ear. “Let the world fall away around us.” 

 

She knew him well enough now to understand that Sandor expressed himself best in deed, not words, and for this opportunity he seemed grateful. Their joining on that hill, under the stars and moon, was as if it had been the first time. It wasn’t raw and fevered and lustful like all their meetings in King’s Landing and beyond- it was the time in the barn again, set on fire, gentle and desperate, slow and savored. 

 

It was only when they were spent and laying down to sleep from the effort of it all, only when he suspected she was asleep that he caressed her shoulder, hip and hair and she heard him whisper softly to the wind, “I love you.” 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Vale isn't everything they hoped, a worthy opponent appears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for what my OC tries to do to a beloved character lol, but needs must in the heat of the moment. I'm sure they'd be great friends otherwise. How about that last episode though?

The dynamic shifted between them from that point forward, but in a way that they kept only to themselves. He opened himself to her more little by little in the precious moments they shared in solitude. She would savor them while she had them, the things that might have seemed so insignificant in the big picture but meant everything to her; their laying together, entwined in one another’s arms without expectation of anything more, his head in her lap when they sat beneath the stars or the shade of a tree. Together they dismantled whatever barriers had kept his heart from hers, from the rest of the cruel world, and she accepted him to her gently, calmly, as one tames a supposed beast. 

 

It was a secret they protected fiercely between them as the days went on and the future became more uncertain. Any moment at all could’ve been their last. 

 

Their arrival at the Bloody Gate was evidence enough of that, a symbol that towered over them of the forces that would’ve seen them torn from each other for good. She didn’t know if they’d have any chance against that kind of power in the end, but if it did not kill her she would at least have these memories to cherish for as long as she drew breath. 

 

She said her quick goodbyes to Arya, thanked her for the instruction with a bow. 

 

“I wish there was more I could offer for all you’ve done for me,” Vevynne mused. “But I fear I have nothing.” 

 

Arya thought on it a moment, then made a suggestion she must have known would have been difficult to fathom. 

 

“You’re a Lannister...one of the only good ones, so far as I can tell. You may not hold much sway with them, but you must have some. I know you don’t want to go back but you might be of more use among them than out here.”

 

She was a bit shocked to hear such a thing, perhaps because there was a kernel of truth in it that she couldn’t deny. 

 

“I...I don’t know that I can reign in my family members as well as one might hope.” 

 

Arya squinted her eyes in doubt. “You’ll never know if you don’t try.” 

 

Sandor had overheard them, as when she looked to him in contemplation their eyes met. The agreement that Arya might have been right was shared unspoken, solemnly, but it was not something she could wrap her mind around without question. She’d worked  _ so hard _ to be rid of that life, to refuse being a pawn of lesser importance in the great Lannister plan for Seven Kingdoms domination. 

 

And yet here she was, running from their bounty hunters, hearing Arya Stark herself suggest she was better served behind enemy lines. It wouldn’t have made much sense at all if she didn’t know her family as well as suggested; they didn’t appreciate having their things taken from them, no matter how inconsequential they might have been while in their possession. 

 

She was left to ponder the matter further while Sandor walked Arya into The Vale, as it was felt safer for a Lannister to keep herself out of Stark sight. There was every possibility they might see fit to take her hostage as they had others and that would leave all other options null and void. 

 

This turned out to be in vain, however, as it wasn’t long before her traveling companions returned with news that Lady Arryn was dead and no payment would be granted. Arya was none too keen to walk straight into the clutches of Lord Baelish either. 

 

* * *

 

Uncertainty reigned supreme over them again as they continued onward to...well, none of them really knew at this point. The only objective anyone could agree on was that Arya needed to be kept safe, and though it was convenient to blame that concern on the fact that she was a Stark, Vevynne and Sandor would be lying if they said there wasn’t an emotional component to this as well. 

 

Of course, it wasn’t likely the latter of the two would admit that out loud in mixed company. 

 

Arya’s words continued to swirl around in her mind in the meantime. She knew after a point that her resistance to the logic of it was borne only of her own stubbornness; perhaps there  _ was _ more she could do in the thick of King’s Landing and the Lannister scheming, much more than continue to shoot rabbits out in the wilderness. 

 

For now she continued on with what she’d grown accustomed to. Big decisions could be made later, after they had eaten. Or maybe later still. 

 

She had kept some distance from them during their stop, taking advantage of the Vale’s hills and mountainous pockets to keep an eye on game. She was not so far, however, to hear the sudden clanging of steel and the roars of voices echoing all around the landscape. Knowing these were the sure sounds of a fight she worked her way back to where she’d seen her companions last, not too terribly concerned if Sandor  _ had _ come up against an enemy as he’d yet to meet one he hadn’t bested. 

 

Perhaps it was a bandit or some other half baked, sloppy bounty hunter with her name on his lips. Nothing of any grave concern, surely. 

 

All of those assumptions fell apart when she finally reached a good vantage point to find Sandor locking steel with someone that nearly met his height, just as large and powerful, meeting him attack for attack in a way no opponent they’d met before had done. She watched only until their weapons were lost and the second warrior had him on the ground, biting and punching. 

 

He wouldn’t appreciate her interference afterwards, but she’d be damned if she was going to sit back and watch him die. She nocked an arrow into place and prayed that all her lessons with Arya wouldn’t go to waste. 

 

_ Loose _ . The arrow soared and hit the ground beside them as they rolled. They were moving too fast and she was too inexperienced an archer to have met the target the first time. She grabbed another arrow from her quiver, made to try again, while the second warrior caught sight of her and yelled, “Podrick!” 

 

It didn’t matter who or what a  _ Podrick _ was, she thought, as she nocked another arrow and tried to follow the bright shock of blonde hair. If she could only get one through the warrior’s eye...  

 

_ Loose _ . That one hit closer, but still coasted past the warrior’s head and bounced off the stone. She cursed under her breath, secured another in the bow and grit her teeth, more determined than ever. 

 

“Get them secure, my love,” she begged Sandor under her breath. She needed only for the enemy to be still a  _ moment  _ and she’d have a good chance of sending an arrow through their skull. 

 

Perhaps he sensed her plea, perhaps it was just the luck of the draw, as the two finally stood again and kept a steady pace as the opponent landed punch after punch into Sandor’s face. Her need to kill was at its peak. She squinted her eyes, aimed her shot, tightened her bow…

 

“I’m sorry, milady, needs must,” came a voice suddenly from behind her. It startled her so much that she let the arrow loose without aim, sending it flying impotently into the wilderness. She hadn’t time to act or regret her lack of presence of mind as there was a hard impact to her head and all went black. 

 

* * *

  
  


Her eyes fluttered open to silence, save for the singing of birds and a terrible ringing in her head. Even through blurry eyes she could see that the day had aged from when she was last conscious, the sun sitting in its lazy, late afternoon position in the sky. Of course, that didn’t mean it was the  _ same _ day, as it was clear now someone had incapacitated her (quite well, it seemed) and time might have burned away faster while she lay immovable. 

 

Little by little the details of that moment came back to her, and with them a sickening panic. There was no sign of any living soul in the vicinity which meant anything from Sandor having been killed, Arya  _ and _ Sandor having been killed, Arya and Sandor having been taken, perhaps even leaving without her. 

 

Vevynne tried to avoid jumping to drastic conclusions as she gathered her bow and quiver and set out in an aimless wander, calling out their names in the unlikely event they were still nearby, searching the ground and surrounding area desperately for some kind of clue as to where they might have gone. 

 

There was blood where the fight had occurred, a trail of it that lead down the cliff’s face. She followed it, trying to take care as she climbed and slid down the side of the rocks even as her heart pumped fast and hard in her chest, begging that she go faster. As much as she might have liked to have found her companions her stronger wish was that she’d find the corpse of the other warrior at the end of her trail. 

 

No such luck. Instead what lay for her at the base of that incline was the bloodied, mangled, but obvious shape of Sandor.

 

Her heart fell, her breath caught in her throat, her stomach churned. 

 

“No, no, no, no….” she repeated in a chant as she scrambled over to him, over the rocks, tearing her skirts, tripping and cutting the skin of her shins without any concern for the pain. He couldn’t be dead, he  _ mustn’t _ be dead…

 

He was in a bad way, that much was obvious when she finally reached his side, but his breaths continued to fall and a hand on his chest indicated that his heart was still beating. Her touch made his weakened eyes open. 

 

“Thought you were long gone...” he breathed. Her presence startled him, there was disbelief in his broken voice. “Might have even hoped…” 

 

She shook her head. “I’m not going anywhere without you.” 

 

He struggled to place a hand over hers, the same that laid against his slowing heart beat, but it was clear any movement at all took every bit of energy he had left. 

 

“No, no, shh...don’t struggle. Lie still.” 

 

He managed to scoff out a solemn laugh. “Lie still. That’s all I can do now.” 

 

“No,” she resolved, ever the stubborn Lannister bitch. “I’m not letting you die.”

 

“I don’t see any alternative,” he argued. “I asked the Stark girl to put me out of my misery...as nice and polite as I know how to be. She wouldn’t grant me the mercy of a quick death. I don't suppose you would either.” 

 

Vevynne was grateful for that, though she was sure Arya’s intent hadn’t been borne of kindness. 

 

“ _ I’m _ not letting you die,” she repeated, pulling the scarf from her hair to tie around the wound on his leg, the bone emerging from his skin. “I’ll find help. There are villages not far from here.” 

 

“No...please.” He grabbed her hand as she made to stand and go do as she promised. “Don’t… don’t leave me. I don’t want to die alone, not like this.” 

 

She gently caressed his hair, brushing it from his bloodied face, shushed him once more as a mother would a child. She then leaned down and pressed a kiss to his lips, soft and fleeting, as she didn’t want him to lose too much breath. 

 

“You’re  _ not _ going to die,” she promised, a whisper against his lips. “I won’t have it.” 

 

She took his hand in hers, held it tightly in her grasp. 

 

“Hold on for me, my love. You must hold on. I  _ will _ be back.” 

 

She didn’t relish leaving him there, but staying by his side would mean watching the light slowly fade from his eyes as had those of the merchant on the road. She wouldn’t grant him the quick death he hungered for either, not so long as she believed in her heart she could save him. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vevynne seeks help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not the end, not by a mile. Just saying that now.

The sentiment that there must have been villages nearby to render aid was something of a lie; Vevynne knew nothing of the Vale or surrounding area beyond cursory knowledge of Westeros geography. She had no idea if civilization of any kind was close enough, let alone if it’d be made up of people sympathetic and capable of helping them, but the only alternative was to wait by his side for the inevitable. She chose instead to take her chances, however slim. 

 

To avoid losing her way she stuck to the path that wound in between the cliff faces, still feeling a bit exposed and helpless out here in the middle of nowhere without her usual protection. She wondered what she should be fearing more, bandits or animals? Perhaps it was the least of her concerns right now, but she’d be of no use to anyone if she was dead. There was  _ that _ . 

 

After a time she began hearing voices on the wind, a great deal of them it sounded like. As much as a part of her wanted to run to them, waving her arms and crying for whatever help they might offer, she instead hid herself behind a rock and waited. It was important that she discern whether or not they were friend or foe before making herself visible. 

 

They came over the rise torturously slow, a group of common folk, it seemed, led by a man in both path and song. She noticed the leader wore a seven-pointed star around his neck and simple burlap clothes, an indication of a man of faith, possibly even a Septon. Vevynne had never known a Septon to be murderous (not openly anyway) and the people he led didn’t seem any more dangerous than he. 

 

She decided it was as good a chance as she’d get. 

 

“Excuse me!” she called to them, emerging from her hiding place to meet them on the road. 

 

The Septon was startled by her sudden appearance, but he smiled at her nonetheless as if greeting an old friend. 

 

“Seven blessings to you, my lady! These are dangerous roads for a woman to roam by herself, would you care to join us?” 

 

There wasn’t time to thank him properly for his generous offer, nor to even offer initial courtesies. 

 

“I need help,” she said, trying to catch her breath. “My...friend. He’s wounded. Just up the road.” 

 

The Septon’s smile fell into something closer to suspicion. His followers steeled themselves. She had a difficult time discerning why. 

 

“Meaning no offense, dear, but you understand it’s a common tactic for bandits to lead hapless folk into traps this way? A pretty girl asking for help to second location...I’ve seen it dozens of times before.” 

She nodded in understanding, but that left the question of how she’d prove that her request was genuine. She wracked her mind for a moment, searching for a solution...until the memory of something else she’d stowed away in her napsack emerged. She reached in and presented it. 

 

“I am Vevynne Lannister, daughter of Ser Kevan Lannister, niece to Lord Twyin. I offer this locket as proof of my identity and collateral against my word. I would not give it if I meant to lead you into a trap.” 

 

She handed it over to the Septon, allowed him to inspect the lion sigil carved into the silver- a gift that had been passed on to her and her siblings and though not as elaborate as the ones made of Lannister gold held by Cersei and Myrcella, it was evidence of her lineage nonetheless. She knew every step of the way in this improvised plan that she was risking her own future in exposing herself, but if it meant saving Sandor’s life she would’ve walked back willingly into the Red Keep to spend the rest of her days.  

 

“My apologies!” The Septon exclaimed, his eyes widening. “Had we known who you were-...!” 

 

He made to hand it back to her but she refused. 

 

“Keep it. I meant what I said. All I ask is...please, if you can...help him.” 

* * *

  
  


True to their word the Septon and his congregation followed her to where she had left Sandor last. She was relieved to find he still drew breath, though it was shallow, weak and haggard and he was struggling to hold on to consciousness. It took several of the men to load him on to a wagon, but once he was secured there she sat beside him, held his hand and remained with him until the group reached their destination. 

 

Septon Ray introduced himself to her that evening as Sandor was tended to, explained that she was welcome to remain with them as long as she liked. He brought with him a blanket for her against the chill of the night air, as well as warm stew and drink. 

 

“There’s a reward out for my return,” she felt compelled to mention to him. “250 gold stags. Or 400. I don’t know, something like that. It would help your congregation a great deal.” 

 

“Do you  _ want _ to go back?” he asked. 

 

She chuckled bitterly. “No...not in the least. I left of my own free will, I wanted to be done with that life....but I’m beginning to think I never will be.” 

 

Septon Ray gestured in Sandor’s general direction, towards the healing tent they had erected to tend to him. 

 

“Did you leave for love then? A bit of forbidden romance?” 

 

She shook her head and smiled. “No, I didn’t  _ leave _ for that. I left for many...many other reasons...love just happened to find me along the way.” 

 

He nodded in understanding and they sat for a moment in the peaceful silence of evening, as twilight cloaked the mountain valley. 

 

“I suspect he was wounded because of me,” she confessed after a while, unsure of what made her so open and honest all of a sudden. Perhaps it was due to speaking to a Septon, or perhaps there was something unique to Ray that made him easy to talk to. It felt liberating, comforting either way. “His attacker...I saw they wielded a Lannister sword.” 

 

“You think they were after you.” 

 

“Possibly. Very likely. Which would mean...my very presence is a danger to him.” 

 

He didn’t have any advice to offer her and for that she didn’t blame him. There wasn’t any to give in such an impossible situation. 

 

“What do you intend to do?” he asked. 

 

“Go back.” She hadn’t wasted any time on that answer. “It breaks my heart to leave him...but it would be worse to know I had caused his death with my own selfishness.”

 

“A true act of love,” Septon Ray commended. “I haven’t heard that kind of selflessness is  _ usual _ among Lannisters. But then again, neither is running away from home, I suppose.” 

 

“I would like to stay a bit longer, if you’ll have me. I want to see that he recovers before I go.” 

 

Ray patted her shoulder and confirmed, “I meant what I said. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you see fit.” 

 

He rose from where he’d taken a seat beside her on the fallen log, made to walk back to camp but she called back after him. 

 

“I have another offer. When the time comes, send some of your men to escort me home for safety’s sake. They can then collect on the ransom for your congregation. It’s the least I can do for all you’ve done for us.” 

 

He thanked her and agreed to the offer, then studied her a moment, a question already playing in his mind, she could tell. 

 

“This man you’ve brought to us...he’s someone of note, isn’t he?” 

 

She worried her bottom lip between her teeth, weighing whether or not it was a good idea to tell him the truth. The congregation had thus far proven trustworthy, reluctant to even accept a bounty unless the person at hand offered it. Vevynne also had to be honest with herself about the nature of Sandor, what he might do if he woke up surrounded strangers. Perhaps Septon Ray deserved to know what he was taking on. 

 

“His name is Sandor Clegane,” she admitted. “More commonly known as The Hound.” 

 

* * *

  
  


They were, between the two of them, very expensive targets. She half-expected that the rug would be pulled out from under them, that Septon Ray would prove himself to be not even half as trustworthy and would turn them both over for ransom in the end. He didn’t, and though she’d like to think it was just because he was a good man, she allowed the possibility that her offer of going willingly to redeem her own might have saved Sandor further. 

 

She remained over the course of a few days, as he came back and forth from the brink. Septon Ray didn’t mince words with her, he was honest in that he didn’t think it likely Sandor would pull through. He asked if she wanted to pray with him for some help from the gods and though she had never been much of a believer, she was willing to do anything, turn to anyone. 

 

Either the gods or Sandor’s strength pulled through in the end; she was told he  _ would _ make it after further rest, though the news was bittersweet. It meant it was time for her to leave. 

 

They outfitted her with a horse, the entourage of protectors as promised. She asked Septon Ray to pass on the locket to Sandor when he was well enough. 

 

“Tell him I love him,” she requested, eyes burning with tears. “Tell him I always will, that I’m grateful for what he’s given me, that the most I could do was offer him a chance at a new life.”

 

And then she was gone, riding back to the destiny she couldn’t escape.  


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vevynne returns to King's Landing, welcomed by some sad truths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY FULL DISCLOSURE IN THE CHAPTERS GOING FORWARD: This story has really taken off with a life of its own and I have a full plan to explore the timeline from where we are in the chapters to where we are in the show. As such, it may be awhile before Sandor shows up again. The coming chapters will hopefully develop Vevynne more and explore her life as a Lannister, though Sandor will never be far from her thoughts. Just wanted everyone to be aware of that before proceeding. As with all things I write though, circumstances are subject to change.

King’s Landing might have been a respectable distance away from the The Vale, but the journey felt much shorter than before. The days passed quicker and the fell of the metaphorical blade came ever closer with every step she took forward. It took everything in her not to turn and run another direction, only the thought of how this strategic step could help her beloved keeping her on the fixed path for good. 

 

They arrived as promised, the looming of the Red Keep above making her want to vomit on the cobblestone path. Her fate was  _ sealed _ the moment she walked back through those doors, perhaps already with the guards now aware of who she was and keeping a tight perimeter on her and her entourage. 

 

She had assumed the Keep was cloaked in black to Joffrey’s memory, but when they stepped inside it was Cersei that greeted her on the Iron Throne rather than Uncle Tywin. 

 

“We are all so pleased to see you safely restored to us, cousin,” Cersei smiled, though as with all of her  _ pleasant _ gestures Vevynne knew there was nothing genuine in that sentiment. “Your father will certainly be relieved.” 

 

True enough, as Ser Kevan burst through the doors of the throne room not long after this was said. For the first time in perhaps  _ forever _ he took her into his arms, no concern for courtly protocol. 

 

“My darling girl…!” 

 

She stiffened in his grasp, uncertain how to answer the unprecedented gesture of affection or what caused him to favor this over anger. Or indifference. 

 

“I can’t even begin to imagine what you must have endured,” Cersei mused. “ _ Kidnapped _ ...left defenseless in the wilderness with a traitor of the crown.” 

 

“Where  _ is _ Clegane?” Ser Kevan demanded to know. “I want the dog’s head!” 

 

“Dead, father,” Vevynne said quickly. “He sustained injuries on the road and succumbed to them. I was able to get away, but I had no idea where I was or how to fend for myself. These kind men found me and helped me back to King’s Landing. They didn’t want to, but I begged them to accept the ransom in return for their generosity.” 

 

Her father seemed none too pleased about not getting the opportunity to see Sandor’s head severed for himself, but he accepted this explanation and nodded towards the men of Septon Ray’s congregation. 

 

“It will be paid in full, of course. We owe you gentlemen a great debt.” 

 

While Ser Kevan might have been content to accept Vevynne’s story, the plastered smile on Cersei’s face spoke differently. 

 

“Yes,” she agreed. “It has been a tumultuous time for our family, some good news was sorely needed. King Joffrey is dead, you see...as is your Uncle Tywin.” 

 

The former she’d already known about, of course, but news of her Uncle’s passing had escaped her knowledge until now. 

 

“Uncle Tywin…? I don’t understand, did he fall ill?” 

 

“ _ Murdered _ ,” Cersei replied through slightly gritted teeth. “By the Imp- the very same perpetrator that took our King from us.” 

 

Vevynne could hardly wrap her mind around what she was hearing. She and all the Lannisters knew coustin Tyrion had no great love for Joffrey or his father, but  _ murder _ …? It seemed too extreme for someone that had always been very kind, protective of his family despite everything. 

 

“Are...are you absolutely certain…?” 

 

Cersei’s face fell, and with it any more attempts to feign courteousness. This her father seemed to notice, taking Vevynne’s shoulders to steer her from the throne room before the conversation could escalate.  

 

“Come,” he coaxed. “You’ll be wanting proper rest and a good wash, I’m sure.” 

 

But as ever, it wasn’t like Cersei not to have the final word. 

 

“I’m curious,” she called out after both of them, to which they had no choice but to acknowledge by turning around. “You say that you had no means of fending for yourself on the roads, yet it was noticed on your saddlebags that you carried a bow and arrow. I don’t recall you having ever been instructed in archery. Has she, Uncle?” 

 

Ser Kevan bristled. “Certainly not. What good would a weapon do a highborne woman?” 

 

“It was given to me by my rescuers,” Vevynne interjected, vying to get control of the debate before it escaped her. “In case we came up against danger. They thought it necessary I have a means of protection.” 

 

Cersei squinted her cat-like eyes, doubtful. “A strange weapon to offer for that purpose. It takes some amount of skill to even hold, as I understand.” 

 

“It was all they had to spare. They helped me learn the basics.” 

 

“Yes well,” Ser Kevan coughed, once more moving his daughter away. “All a moot point. She’s restored to us now and we can all rest easy.” 

 

Vevynne chanced one more look back at Cersei, only to find her glaring her down with intent. Though she may have been left with no choice but to accept the story she’d been told for the time being, it was clear her cousin was far from through with her.

 

* * *

 

It was later in the evening, after she had rested, been washed, and dressed back in the finery that felt more constrictive than she remembered, that a knock came at her door. It startled her a bit, caught up as she was in a reverie looking out her window over the Blackwater, remembering the sounds and sights of the chaotic night when she thought she had changed her life for good. 

 

She bid the person to come in, though half-regretted doing so when someone completely unfamiliar to her stepped in. A pious young man, it appeared to be, shaven head and dressed in a simple burlap rope. 

 

“Can I help you, sir? I don’t-...”

 

But when he turned around she felt her heart soar. “Lancel…? Lancel, I don’t believe it…!” 

 

She ran to him, wrapped her arms around him and pressed her face into his shoulder. 

 

“My dear brother...I never thought I’d see you again.” She pulled away after a time to survey him, unsure of what to make of his new appearance. “I...hardly recognized you. You’re a man of the faith now?” 

 

He smiled in confirmation of this, though it wasn’t filled with the genuine warmth she would’ve recognized. 

 

“I am. The time I spent healing from my wounds helped to lead me on to a better path. Sometimes it takes a close brush with death to realize just how important life is.” 

 

She  _ wanted _ to be happy for him, of course, but knowing her brother as well as she did put her confidence in a place of doubt. There was a spark missing to him, one she was sure she would’ve seen if this was truly the right choice. 

 

“That’s wonderful,” she said, even if she didn’t believe it so. “I met a man of the faith myself just before coming back. He was one of the group that aided me.” 

 

“The Gods favored you then. I’m glad for it. I did a great deal of praying for your safe return home. It must have been very frightening to be caught in the Hound’s clutches for so long.” 

 

She had begun to pour herself some wine, her back turned to him as she did so and thus didn’t have to hide her shifting eyes. 

 

“Yes... _ frightening _ . Alas, I’m home now...and the Hound is dead. He won’t terrorize anyone else again.” 

 

Lancel hesitated a moment and she could tell from the way his eyes darted about the room aimlessly that he had things to say, things she may not have necessarily wanted to hear. 

 

She placed a hand on his arm. “Lancel...what is it?” 

 

He swallowed thickly. “There are...rumors. Some say you left with the Hound of your own free will.”

 

She feigned a laugh. “Why on earth would I have done such a thing?” 

 

“Some say you hired him as a protector, some say he swore an oath to you...others whisper that you and he were...lovers, of some kind or another.” 

 

“People will  _ always _ talk, you know that,” she dismissed. “There’s no end to the stories and embellishments. I suppose it must be somewhat refreshing for them to have a  _ different _ Lannister to talk about. I didn’t give them much reason to before.”

 

She was teasing to an extent, but she remained puzzled...perhaps, even, disturbed. It wasn’t like her brother to take stock in gossip, particularly since he was often involved in it. The Lancel  _ she _ knew wouldn’t have interrogated her about the nature of her relationship with Sandor, he himself having a few unadvised trysts of his own.  

 

He remained grave. 

 

“The High Sparrow says to lie about a sin is to commit it twice over. You don’t have to lie to me, Vevynne. If there was anything carnal about your relationship admitting so is the first step to cleansing yourself, becoming whole again the eyes of the Seven. If you hope to marry well it’s important that these truths are dealt with.” 

 

She scoffed, tempted to correct him on his assumption that her only aspirations in life were to  _ marry well _ . He knew better. There was a time he knew more about her than anyone else, but now...well, he was unrecognizable. If someone told her he had sold his soul she would’ve believed them. 

 

“I have nothing to hide or confess,” she sighed. “And I’m very tired from the whole affair, so if you don’t mind terribly-...” 

 

“There is one more thing I need to tell you.” Lancel’s eyes cast down and he took a breath of preparation before saying, “Uncle Tywin and cousin Joffrey were not the only deaths we suffered while you were gone. Martyn and Willem…” 

 

Vevynne felt as if someone had run a spear straight through her. 

 

“No. Lancel, no, there has to be a mistake-” 

 

“They were taken as prisoners by Robb Stark...and executed.” 

 

She collapsed onto her knees, ignorant of the pain that resonated when they collided with the stone floor. It felt as if the room was closing in on her, she could hardly breathe. Lancel placed a hand on her shoulder. 

 

“Take comfort, sister. Their souls are safe in the arms of the Mother now. They will no longer know pain, strife, temptation. They are where the terrors of the night cannot reach them.” 

 

She looked up into his eyes, praying only that she might see some semblance of the brother she once knew. There was none, and in that moment it became clear  _ all _ of her brothers were lost. He left her then with his empty platitudes and useless attempts at comfort, more alone in the world now than she had ever been before. 

* * *

 

She was there only a few days, most of which she spent staring bleary eyed out the same window she’d chosen before Lancel came to speak to her. It was difficult to eat, to sleep, wondering what kind of fate her brothers had met, whether or not the Starks had spiked their heads or left them hanging to rot. She supposed it didn’t matter, as death came for Robb Stark as well...but in this, there was a bittersweet vengeance. She loved and owed Arya a great debt, would not have wished the death of any more family members on her. Another slaughter did not restore her brothers to her, merely added to the ever deepening pool of blood. 

 

It also gave further explanation as to why her father was so attentive to her now, hovering around her at all times, checking on her and expressing affection in ways he never had. They hadn’t spoke of her brothers’ deaths or Lancel’s departure to the faith. She didn’t wish to push him to either, as she was sure it was as difficult for him to bear as it was for her. In her, he saw what remained of his hopes and dreams for the future. Despite everything, she wouldn’t spoil that for him. 

 

He came to her room one day in fury, making her jump from her seat as she knew the signs well, the heavy footfalls, the clenching of his fists. 

 

“We’re returning to Casterly Rock,” he explained, no room in his tone for argument. “I cannot stand this godforsaken Keep, this...piss-soaked city for another bloody minute.” 

 

“Father…” she coaxed, chancing a hand on his arm. It was the most physical affection she had ever dared show him, but having such experience with recognizing sadness in a man’s eyes she saw the same in him now. 

 

“I can’t stand it, Vevynne!” he cried, his voice breaking. “Lancel...then that  _ woman _ . That woman who would slit all our throats to have custody of the Seven Kingdoms…!” 

 

She was, at first, frightened when his rage collapsed into sobs, when he grabbed hold of her for purchase against the cries that wracked his body. She’d always known him to be a pillar of strength, a military man that, as far as she knew, had never cried a day in his life. Now, he was broken. 

 

There may have been conflict here, but she saw no alternative but to hold him against her, caress what remained of his wispy, greying hair and try to shush him to calm. In the fabric of her dress, against her shoulder, he cried and whispered the names of her fallen brothers. 

 

“I’m here...I’m still here, father,” she promised and then felt a thickening in her throat as she concluded with, “I’ll always be here.” 

 

Not a truth she wanted, but one that fit her nonetheless. 

 

“My girl...my sweet girl...when I thought you were lost to me as well-....”

 

He couldn’t finish this sentence against his tears, so instead of attempt words she continued to hold her father and let him come apart in her arms. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vevynne and Ser Kevan return to Casterly Rock. Ser Kevan has plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To me this chapter moves kind of slow and doesn't have a ton of intrigue in it, but I felt it necessary to bridge some of the time gap and explore more of Vevynne's character, her changing relationship with her father, and what her existence is like as a Lannister. There's also a small character cameo in this yall might enjoy. Might not, idk, lol. I wanted to also give some context to Vevynne's efforts here; she's discovering things about herself that will be developed as the story continues. She's finding that her ability to lie well and even, sometimes, manipulate can serve to a greater advantage. Arya kind of set her on that path in an earlier chapter, you may recall. Her relationship with Sandor is a complicated, delicate thing on more fronts than one. While she doesn't enjoy people continuing to believe he is a monster she knows that it works to her advantage, his, and the greater good if people continue to believe she was kidnapped, that he's now dead, etc. It wouldn't do for people to know she's in love with and shared a mutually consensual relationship with a traitor of the Throne, not if her standing among her family is ever going to be used a weapon against people that would harm her and/or Sandor and/or the realm as a whole. She's still finding her footing with the whole 'working the puppet strings' thing and it may, at times, be inconsistent. That's intentional. She's a novice at putting this into a greater practice. Hopefully that all makes sense? Also you'll note I've chosen a new FC for her. As she's developed as a character I began to lean towards a different actress to embody all that she's becoming. Rebecca Ferguson in The White Queen makes a great Lannister too, I'll include a pic at the top of this chapter.

 

They took the Goldroad back to Casterly Rock, kept boxed away safely in their carriage, armed with an entourage of his outfitted men on all sides. Her father never took any risks when it came to travel and she supposed that was due. It didn’t stop her from looking longingly out the window, remembering a time when she rode through wilderness free on horseback, not needing an army when she had Sandor at her side. She imagined them both on the hills that rolled past, riding together again without destination, motive, responsibility. She would always hunger for that freedom again, comforted only in the fact that  _ he _ was safe in her return, that she’d always have her memories to fall back on when life inevitably threatened to swallow her whole. 

 

“What’s happened to Cousin Tyrion?” she asked her father after a long stretch of silence, her curiosity having tugged at her for awhile now. It was clear that the Throne would not take the murder of a King in stride, even if it was only presumed guilt and not certain. And yet, she hadn’t heard anyone gloat about his execution either. 

 

Ser Kevan grimaced at the mention of the name. 

 

“He’s escaped, gone missing somewhere or another, no one knows- the eunuch with him. Likely a plot concocted by them both. Cersei will put a prize on his head for certain, but so long as he’s with Lord Varys I don’t think it likely that will be of much use.” 

 

He clenched his fists, open and closed, grinded his teeth for a bit. Vevynne still couldn’t bring herself to regret asking. 

 

“I don’t want to speak of the Imp,” he said finally. “ _ We _ have much more pressing matters that require our attention. After we’re settled, I’d like to once again arrange a match for you.” 

 

Vevynne’s eyes widened. She felt her heart speed up a bit in her chest. She must have known this was inevitable upon her return, just not that it would come so soon. 

 

“Father, I-...” 

 

Accustomed to her resistance to this matter her father didn’t waste any time rallying back, “ _ Vevynne _ , you grow older every day. Our line is all but decimated. A woman’s time to produce heirs is limited and we have to use what is allotted to us,  _ now _ more than ever. You have a duty to your family.” 

 

“No, I...I understand,” she lied, wetting her lips. “I just thought...so soon, after everything? After all I’ve endured?” 

 

He softened a bit at the reminder of her ‘plight’. 

 

“My beloved girl…” He took her hand in his own. “I know the horrors you must have faced as captive go beyond anything I could imagine. I would give my life to take it all back. But you must  _ understand _ ...that is one of the very pressing reasons we must arrange something quickly. It’s not your fault, but people whisper things.” 

 

Her spirits fell to hear word of those rumors again. She hadn’t thought her father so dense as to buy into half baked gossip the same as her brainwashed brother (that it was  _ truth _ was beside the point). 

 

“You can’t tell me you actually  _ believe _ -” 

 

“ _ No _ , my dear, but it doesn’t matter what I believe. The truth doesn’t matter. Whispered word is detrimental enough, thus, we must find a good match before it spirals out of our control.” 

 

There was a time she would’ve argued further, tried his patience to its limit, but that was before the deaths of Martyn and Willem, before Lancel’s conversion, before  _ everything _ . Where her father was once cold and unyielding he was now pleading, desperate. He didn’t have to say so, his eyes spoke it all. 

 

“Very well,” she sighed, seeing no alternative. “What suitors have you in mind for me? Please don’t say a Dornish prince.” 

 

Her subtle attempts at humor went undetected. Or ignored. 

 

“No, if there was ever a chance for that it’s lost to us now. I have a handful of reasonable candidates in mind. I will discuss it all with you when we arrive.” 

 

He squeezed her hand, offered a rarely seen smile that was rather awkward from a lack of him ever doing so. It touched her nonetheless. 

 

“And we will decide together.” he assured. 

 

It was all she could ask. 

 

* * *

  
  


Casterly Rock was an improvement on King’s Landing, at least. It was effectively her home, where she had been born and grew up in the company of her brothers. There was still a coldness to it inherent to any castle or keep, but here she could look down from the ramparts and remember warm summer days in the courtyard with Willem and Martyn. She could recall their young, rounded faces, plump cheeks reddened from running in the sun. She sometimes thought she could hear their laughter in the wind still, carried over time and space, untouched by death. 

 

She would learn to be content with memories, even if they saddened and brought her to tears. It was all the comfort she had now. 

 

She elected to continue practicing archery rather than always sit and sew by a window. Without a seasoned tutor to observe she couldn’t be sure she was adapting the right form, but it was better than letting the skills she had learned go weak and forgotten. There was so much that was uncertain these days and she was determined not to find herself dying, cowering in a corner, begging for her life. If her father ever caught sight of her doing this (which, in truth, she made no attempt to conceal) he said nothing of it. She suspected that was more of an allowance than he would’ve given her before. 

 

In time he called her to discuss prospective husbands, a matter she was conflicted about for more reasons than one. It was exceedingly generous of him to allow her to take part in the decision, more than she had been granted before, so for this reason she was grateful to him. She knew that a marriage was unavoidable since the choice was made to come back and she knew that love was not, in any way, a required prerequisite to taking a husband of another noble house. 

 

That being so, she still had always hoped in some part of herself that she’d grow to slowly love whoever it was she ended up with, as marrying  _ for _ love was nonoption. She didn’t know how that would be possible now. She’d only ever think of one marred, unshaven face, tormented brown eyes, rough, calloused hands- things she’d never see again and would never be fortunate enough to call her own. Yet another painful truth she would have to learn to live with. 

 

Her father suggested the heir to House Tarly, as further securing the alliances with the Martells would be smart in light of Joffrey’s death and Margery’s uncertain future with Tommen. He assured her Dickon was kind, thought to be handsome by most and a gifted swordsman- that House Tarly was interested and that it really was her  _ best _ option at this point. She agreed with his logic, as well as an arranged dinner with the families at Casterly Rock to meet and discuss the prospect. 

 

They arrived within a fortnight, Lord and Lady Tarly, their daughter Talla and, of course, her prospective intended, Dickon. Where Lord Tarly was stern and sour the rest of his family was soft and kind. She took to Lady Tarly and Talla rather quickly, noticing every now and again her father sending reminding glances across the table to devote as much attention (if not more) to Dickon as well. 

 

It was obvious Dickon was handsome, in a sort of  _ widely accepted _ kind of way. He had a pure naivety and nobility to him that Vevynne was sure any girl in her right mind would find attractive, consider a very lucky match for a husband. As Sandor had once pointed out to her, however, the inescapable truth was that he wasn’t her type...but, of course, for all the factors that mattered he  _ was _ . Her goal had to be simply to find a husband she could  _ live _ with for her father’s sake, not one she necessarily adored. 

She invited him to accompany her in the courtyard after dinner, his mother and sister not far behind to serve as chaperones. Their fathers retired to the castle study to discuss the particulars further. 

 

“So, this...was your childhood home?” Dickon asked as they strolled alongside one another, obviously grasping at the thinnest of straws to make conversation. 

 

“Yes. My veritable stomping grounds until I came of age, then I was taken to King’s Landing to join the Lannister court in hopes of securing an advantageous marriage.” She gave him a wan smile. “As evidenced, I’ve taken my time of things.” 

 

“I don’t mind that you’re older,” Dickon assured, clumsily. He seemed to realize the poor choice of words and stumbled to amend them. “That is-...not to say that you’re  _ old _ . Older than me, I suppose, but not-...well, you’re no  _ crone _ , obviously…”  

 

She coughed out a polite laugh and placed a comforting hand on his arm, mostly to keep him from saying anything else alongside that line of thought. 

 

“I can’t take  _ all  _ the blame. My father campaigned a great deal for my marriage to a Dornish prince or someone of the like. It didn’t go anywhere, but it did halt all possibility of anything else for awhile.” 

 

Dickon cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably as they continued to walk. She suspected he was about to say something else vaguely, but not  _ intentionally _ insulting. 

 

“My father has...concerns. Your kidnap by the Hound-” 

 

She stopped them both, dead in their tracks. 

 

“Yes, it seems everyone is  _ concerned _ about that,” she rallied back, a bit snippier than intended or advised. “Personally, I find only the most  _ vapid _ of people buy into gossip as if it was the accepted truth. I was kidnapped. I found my way back, safe and unharmed. Surely that is all the truth that matters?” 

 

He was taken back by her frank tone, looked to be the slightest bit intimidated for which she felt sorry. 

 

“I apologize,” she amended. “I just would rather not discuss the situation further. You seem to be a very compassionate man, I’m sure you understand?” 

 

“Yes...yes, of course. I respect that it must have been a very trying ordeal. I wouldn’t have asked if father hadn’t bid me to do so.” 

 

She made to keep going, remorseful that she had been rude but more so that she had shown an emotional hand. That, of course, could be attributed to the reported  _ horrors _ everyone was sure she endured, but she knew in her heart it was due to Sandor’s inhuman title being uttered, used to keep the impression of a monster- by the man she had no choice but to marry, no less. She would not suffer another mention of him like that again. 

 

Dickon stopped her with a gentle hand on her arm, then took both of hers in his own. 

 

“I’m sorry if I’ve made a poor impression, Vevynne. I do like you a great deal and I would consider it a privilege and honor if our fathers see fit to solidify this arrangement. I hope you agree.” 

 

‘ _ You barely know me _ ,’ she wanted to say. ‘ _ You haven’t seen the ugliness of me and you never will.’  _

 

Instead, she forced as convincing a smile as she knew how. 

 

“Of course. Let us hope they can come to an agreement.” 

* * *

  
  


Her father seemed optimistic about the match from that evening on, as he had managed to convince Lord Tarly that the marriage would be advantageous for both parties. Vevynne had no desire to destroy the bit of happiness this promise brought him, so she assured that she and Dickon had taken to each other and would be willing to proceed forward. 

 

‘ _ He’s just a sweet, stupid boy _ ,’ the petulant side of her wanted to argue, but she knew there were far worse alternatives out there and at this point she had no call to be picky. 

 

All was put into order and it seemed for a time that the wedding day was imminent...until the day her father approached her as he had in King’s Landing, his cheerful mood depleted. 

 

“I’ve been called back to King’s Landing,” he explained. “Cersei, in her infinite wisdom, gave those religious fanatics of Lancel’s full military license. Now, she finds herself imprisoned by them for crimes of immorality. There is no one else to serve as Hand.” 

 

“The wedding…?” Vevynne asked, vying to seem more disappointed than hopeful that it might be postponed. 

 

Ser Kevan sighed. “It will have to wait. I’m sorry, Vevynne, but I cannot fight a battle on two fronts at once. Not of this kind, anyway.” 

 

She nodded, pretending to be reluctantly accepting of this news. 

“We will just have to hope the Tarlys aren’t served a better offer in the meantime,” he said, patting her hand in attempt to comfort. 

 

She was then bid to have her things packed once more and prepare for the trip back to the cursed Keep. 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vevynne's secret romance with the Hound comes back to bite her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some heavy religious/moral stuff in this one, but just following the theme of the show at this point in the timeline. Idk what else, it's late and I'm fairly drunk. Enjoy!

Things were dire by the time they had arrived back, somehow more so than they had ever been before. The Faith Militant were everywhere, looking like demons in their black robes, seven-pointed stars carved bloodily into their foreheads, roped in chains. She’d heard more of what they had done in her absence, imprisoning the new Queen Margery as well as Cersei, taking hold of anyone felt to be going against the teachings of the faith. No one was safe from this new enemy, let alone herself. 

 

She could only hope those whispers of her time away had died down, but somehow she didn’t think Lancel would forget.  _ Whatever _ he was now. 

 

Cersei was released from their prisons, but forced to do what the others were calling the Walk of Atonement. Vevynne couldn’t imagine what this would mean, hearing only the jeers and cries of ‘shame!’ outside the door of the Keep as she, her father, and the rest of the council awaited her return. 

 

When the doors finally opened a horrible sight met them. Cersei’s hair had been haphazardly shaven away, to the point that her scalp had been cut at some point in the process. She was naked, completely, covered in blood and bits of food scrap and the Seven only knew what else. Her feet were shredded. 

 

Vevynne claimed no great affection for her older cousin (and she was sure that feeling was mutual), but that had been when she sat mockingly in seats of power, dangling her privilege and ruthlessness over any vulnerable target. Now, she was broken, humiliated, sobbing...and Vevynne’s heart softened despite it all. 

 

Being the only woman present (and no doubt present only for this purpose) she was bid to go cover Cersei with a cloak for the sake of her modesty. This she found herself disturbingly grateful to do and didn’t mind when, in the desperation of the moment, Cersei’s hands found her and held her close. 

 

“It’s all over now,” she coaxed, pressing a gentle kiss to the drying wound on her temple. “Shh, hush now, you’re safe.” 

 

That wouldn’t erase the memory of the degradation she had suffered outside, Vevynne knew...but for whatever evil Cersei had done in her time, she couldn’t believe that something this barbaric was in any way deserved. Perhaps she was merely letting the sympathy of the moment cloud all memory of the past, but it was what it was. 

 

“Let’s get her inside,” Qyburn beckoned. “I need to have a look at those feet.” 

 

There was a terrible rattling of armor then, a reverberation through the ground that Vevynne felt in her bones. She looked to find the source of it, seeing a familiarly huge pillar of a man working his way down the steps. 

Qyburn looked to them with a sense of unsettling pride. 

 

“May I have the honor of presenting the newest member of the King’s Guard.” 

 

The man came to stand near Cersei, towering several leagues over everyone present both in height and width. Vevynne studied his eyes through the metal of his helmet and though they were unnatural, reddish and inhuman, she knew instinctively,  _ exactly _ who it was. 

 

“Gregor Clegane…” she muttered, louder than she had intended. 

 

“The very same. He has taken a holy vow of silence,” Qyburn explained. “He has sworn that he will not speak until all his Grace’s enemies are dead.” 

 

The Mountain looked pointedly at her, his demonic eyes bearing into her soul, as if he knew every truth, every sympathy she held. In this for her was both a surge of fear and hate. This man (if he could still be called that) would destroy anyone and everything she loved if Cersei bid it. 

 

He picked Cersei up as easily a mother would a crying babe and carried her off to receive Qyburn’s treatment. 

 

Vevynne  _ knew _ then that she had to concoct a plan.   

 

* * *

  
  


News came to her sometime later that cousin Jaime had returned from Dorne, evidently in a stealth effort to take Myrcella back. It wasn’t successful; he returned with a body instead. Vevynne was as shocked with grief as any of them, cousin Myrcella having always been a good friend to her, another one of the young lion cubs she’d taken to as more of an older sister than distant relative. Hers was yet another child’s face she could add to her pool of memories, now full of balmy summers in laughter-laden gardens, lit by the warm glow of a distant sun. 

 

The idea came to her to visit Cersei and express her regrets. There was an undercurrent of selfishness here; it had occurred to her that endearing the other woman to her might work to a future advantage. It certainly  _ didn’t _ to be on Cersei’s bad side. Her indifference might have been just as lethal. She was now more vulnerable than ever and Vevynne reasoned it was the best time to strike, the most opportune chance she’d get. 

 

She half expected to be refused at the door when announced, but Cersei permitted her entry. Vevynne did her best to keep her eyes averted from Gregor Clegane who kept a firm, frightening vigil just outside. 

 

“Dearest cousin…” she greeted softly. 

 

Cersei sat with her back to Vevynne, staring out the window to the moonlight that lit up the Blackwater in a ghostly haze. It reminded her of her own time mourning Martyn and Willem. Cersei sighed and asked, “What do you want?”, flippant, but her tone spoke of too much exhaustion to be aggressive. 

 

“I heard of Myrcella’s passing,” Vevynne explained. “With all that’s happened to you in the past few days I felt I might come see how you were fairing.” 

 

She heard her scoff out a laugh. “How do you think I’m  _ fairing _ ?” Then turning to glare at her, “How would you be  _ fairing _ if you had been stripped, beaten, publicly shamed before the entire kingdom and days later learn yet another one of your children had been murdered in cold blood?” 

 

Vevynne lowered her head in respect for her plight. “I imagine not very well, your Grace.” 

 

“Mmm, yes. You’re a smart girl, aren’t you? You catch on so  _ quick _ .” 

 

She had fully expected Cersei to be acerbic as she usually was, but Vevynne also knew her to be weak when it came to matters concerning her children. She wasn’t equipped with the usual emotional armor that barred her from opening up to another person. 

 

Vevynne asked if she could take the seat beside her and Cersei waved her on in apathetic concession, as if to say ‘ _ go on, you will either way, I suppose _ ’. 

 

“I don’t pretend to know exactly how your Grace is feeling,” she said. “But as I’m sure you’re aware, I suffered a loss of my own recently. Martyn and Willem were more sons to me than brothers. The news of their death tore a hole in my heart I don’t think will ever heal. The pain was so great...I could hardly breathe. Knowing that I couldn’t have saved them...that crushing feeling of  _ helplessness _ ...” 

 

She didn’t finish the thought, allowing tears to overcome her. 

 

“My apologies, your Grace.” She wiped her eyes. “I came to comfort you and look at me. I’m of no use, I’ll see myself back to my room.” 

 

It was a calculated move, a bit of bait she didn’t know if Cersei would take or not. Before everything she wouldn’t have, but under the current circumstances...Vevynne felt a hand grasping her wrist before she could walk away. 

 

“No...stay.” Cersei bid her. “You were very kind to me when I returned. You had no call to be. I owe you for that. Sit back down, cousin. Perhaps we can be a comfort to each other.” 

 

Vevynne did as she was asked, finding now that Cersei was regarding her with much softer eyes than before. She reached out to stroke a bit of Vevynne’s hair, letting it run through her fingers. 

 

“Your hair is so like Myrcella’s…” she mused, tears gathering. “Would you mind very much if I tended to it?” 

 

An odd request, perhaps, and one that maybe held some amount of danger. Vevynne could see in her mind’s eye Cersei taking shears to it, but then again, she wasn’t that attached to her locks and decided passing up an opportunity to bond with her cousin further would be foolish.  _ Anything _ to get on her good side. 

 

Vevynne sat down on a stool in front of her, allowed Cersei to gently remove the various pins and braids and let it all cascade down her back. She then took a brush, hummed as she made slow work of combing through it all, from root to tip. Vevynne didn’t know if she was meant to be soothed by this; her back remained tense, prepared for whatever escalation might result. 

 

“ _ Just _ like Myrcella’s…a cascade of gold,” Cersei said again, her voice cracking. “She was such a good girl. She was so pure and naive. I often feared it. It frustrated me. I wanted to harden her, steel her against the world that demands so much of us...and yet, I didn’t. Her trusting nature and insistence to see the good in everyone was an inspiration. In the end, I wanted only to protect her.”

 

Her brush strokes became gradually more aggressive, pulling, almost yanking. Vevynne bit the inside of her cheek to keep from yelping from the pain, gripped the edges of the stool. 

 

“I thought at first it was I who failed her...but then I realized it  _ wasn’t _ me. It was the hard, cruel, selfish world that pried her from my hands. I want to destroy it, do you understand? I want to steal it for myself, everything loved and pure, and I want to watch it  _ burn _ .” 

 

Vevynne placed a hand on hers, stopping the fevered brush strokes before she could further serve as an outlet for Cersei’s rage. 

 

“I thought no one knew how I felt,” she said, turning to look into her cousin’s eyes. “I thought I was wrong for my anger.” 

 

Cersei seized her hands, her grip so hard it was almost painful. 

 

“It’s this putrid world that’s wrong. It would take everything from us. It would chew our family up and spit us back out without a second thought.” 

 

“We must remain strong then, those of us that remain,” Vevynne suggested. “We have to show them the true meaning of Lannister strength.” 

 

Cersei hissed back a sob, took Vevynne’s face in her hands and pressed their foreheads together. 

 

“Yes. You understand. You and Jaime are the only ones who do.” 

 

Vevynne leaned up, pressed a kiss to Cersei’s temple. 

 

“A Lannister always pays her debts,” she reminded her. “And we have a great debt of pain owed, don’t we, your Grace?” 

* * *

  
  


When she had returned to her room she all but collapsed against the closed door. To lie so thoroughly was to feel as if she’d lost a part of herself, to have sold her own soul...and yet, in the end she knew it was a necessity. The Mountain and Cersei had always been individual threats in their own right, but to have now banded together in some kind of unnatural master/slave situation was to mean eventual, dire consequences and the latter of the two was more vengeful than ever. Vevynne knew if she had any chance of countering that she had to let Cersei believe they were allies...no matter how much of herself she may have lost in the process. 

 

She was so overwhelmed, consumed with the whole thing that she didn’t notice Lancel was there waiting for her...but not alone. Standing in the darkness were two of his fellow Sparrows. They all stared her down. 

 

“Lancel…” she breathed, dreading what this meant. 

 

“It pains me that we have to meet under such circumstances,” he said, though his voice was so cold and distant she had a difficult time believing he was genuine. “But I  _ did _ tell you the truth would come to light. It’s not something you can outrun forever.” 

 

“What  _ truth _ …?” she demanded to know, as if she wasn’t already aware. 

 

“Reliable witnesses have come forth, testified to your having been seen visiting Sandor Clegane’s quarters under cover of nightfall prior to your disappearance.” 

 

“Reliable?” she balked. “It is word of mouth, nothing more!”

 

“The Faith requires that you plead your case to the High Septon,” he continued as his accomplices began to close in around her. “If you are truly innocent of the accusations of extramarital relations, you have nothing to fear.” 

 

“And how am I supposed to  _ prove _ myself?” she rallied back, her heart catching in her throat. “I have already  _ told _ you it isn’t true! If my own brother doesn’t believe me at my word, what hope do I have of convincing a stranger?” 

 

Lancel made a futile attempt to coax her. “This is for your own good, Vevynne. The Tarlys will be grateful for their heir’s wife to clear her name and once again be whole. Please. It needn’t be by force, we can walk together.” 

 

She grit her teeth, narrowed her eyes and stood her ground. 

 

“I am  _ not _ walking to my own humiliation. If you are committed to this path, you will have to  _ drag _ me.” 

 

Lancel shook his head in remorse, but gestured nonetheless to the followers. “So be it.” 

 

They took her by the arms, wrenched her hands behind her back, and thus began the long walk. 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vevynne faces the High Sparrow, learns how manipulation can be a weapon of its own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much more religious/morality themes in this one, going by the morals of the Faith Militant in the show and books, I guess lol. Not morals I personally hold, of course.

The High Sparrow was a deceptively kind looking man, smiling down at her as she was made to sit before him as would a gentle grandfather. Vevynne wouldn’t let outer appearances fool her, she couldn’t believe that a truly merciful man would be behind such disgusting, fanatical behavior. She plotted her next step as carefully as she knew how. This was unfamiliar territory and treading that ground so that she emerged unscathed (whatever that would mean) would be a difficult task to accomplish. 

 

There was much more at stake now. Admitting her  _ sins _ was an option, though it would mean owning the fact that her heart belonged to a traitor of the crown. Would that impact her efforts to win Cersei’s affection? Possibly, though she considered ways she might spin the story so that confessing did not mean sacrificing her feigned loyalties. One thing was for certain, she  _ would  _ have to play to two different sides. 

 

“I trust you know why you’ve been brought before us?” The High Sparrow asked, still with that weak old smile. 

 

“I have been made aware of the charges, yes.” 

 

She was decided to hold on to a calm resolve for now, as anything more heated might open the door to ruling in favor of her guilt. 

 

“You must understand. Your brother acted out of concern for you. Your family requires that you secure an advantageous marriage and these accusations are an undeniable marring- not just to you, Vevynne, but the Lannister name as a whole.” 

 

“From what I’ve heard, I am not the only Lannister that has smeared our  _ good name _ .” 

 

The High Sparrow chuckled as if they were sharing some congenial joke, passing the time over tea. 

 

“We are not here to discuss the sins of others. The eyes of the Seven are on you alone now.” 

 

She said nothing else, allowed an uncomfortable silence to pass between them as he stared her down, perhaps hopeful she might break and admit what he wanted to hear. When the standoff carried on too long he finally spoke again. She considered that a small victory. 

 

“As I’m sure you are aware, the Faith considers marriage to be a holy, sacred bond between man and woman. We do not frown upon sexual intercourse in the context of marital union, but to succumb to these temptations without spoken vows is to defy the very Seven themselves. I’d like to make certain you understand that.” 

 

She simply nodded. “I understand what you believe perfectly.”  

 

“Do you still deny that you engaged in extramarital intercourse with a traitor of the Throne?” 

 

“I deny nothing,” she replied, to which the High Sparrow seemed momentarily satisfied. “I confess nothing either. I will speak no further of these accusations without a fair trial.” 

 

The High Sparrow became grave. “You do understand this means we must hold you in contempt until a trail can be arranged?” 

 

She held her jaw, refusing to show the fear this instilled in her. “So be it.” 

* * *

  
  


From the moment she was stripped, clothed in burlap and thrown into the cells, it was obvious to her the objective would be to break her. The solution to this was simple; she could not let herself be broken, not unless the appearance of being so would work to her advantage. There was a lot she didn’t yet know, such as what kind of consequences would result from admitting guilt. The Faith was vague, leaned towards the impression that some amount of clemency would be offered if she confessed to what they had obviously decided she was already guilty of. There was temptation in that, of course, but not one she could allow herself to take. Yet. 

 

It wasn’t made easy for her. A Septa would visit her on a regular basis, offer her water or food beyond a bread crust and command her to confess to receive the spoils. Everytime Vevynne answered the same; “I will confess to nothing without a fair trial.” 

 

She’d be struck, hard, the blows increasing in strength every time she refused. Though her skin was battered, bruised and bloody, she would hold on to the memory of Sandor clinging to life at the base of the mountains. She would recall her younger brothers that suffered unknown, painful deaths at the hands of Robb Stark. She would tell herself if they could endure such horrors, so could she. She would do it for their sakes. 

 

The day eventually came that she received a visitor who wasn’t Septa Unella. When she saw Ser Kevan step into her cell it was all she could do not to collapse in tears and run to him. 

 

“My sweet girl, what have they done to you…?” 

 

He examined her scars and bruises and scabs with the gentlest touch she’d ever known from him. He took her into his arms and kissed her head and, as if she was a child again, she allowed herself to be cradled. There had been times in her youth she had fallen ill, her father either never gracing her bedside or merely looking her over from a distance as one does a specimen, saying nothing but to the Maester tending to her, and then would be on his way. 

 

She supposed she could still hate him for that, but in this moment of desperation she found only forgiveness in her heart for his past indifference. They had both of them changed. 

 

“This will  _ not _ stand,” he decided, explaining to her then the plan to move the Tyrell troops against the Faith. An effort, ultimately, to save Queen Margery, though he was hopeful this would mean her freedom as well. Given that  _ freedom _ for Cersei had simply meant being allowed to return to the Keep while still having to face trial, Vevynne felt that term was relative. She wouldn’t say so to him. 

* * *

  
  


The Tyrell troops were moved against the Faith as her father had promised, though it had not resulted in the bloodshed that was expected. Queen Margery was lifted from the same Walk of Atonement Cersei had endured by promising King Tommen to the Faith, and in this the city had apparently rejoiced. As for her and her father’s hopes this would mean good things for her, no such clemency was immediately rewarded. She was, however, brought before the High Sparrow once again, even as she clung to her repeated reply that she would not utter a confession without trial. 

 

“The Mother will grant mercy to those who are honest in their sin and accept the Faith into their hearts,” the High Sparrow told her, after she was made to kneel before him in the small chapel. “Your Queen stands as evidence to that. Let her be an example to you.” 

 

Vevynne held to her resolve, even as her bones ached and her body cried for the very mercy that was promised. Through cracked lips and a dry throat she repeated, “I will confess to nothing without a fair trial.”

 

The High Sparrow sighed. “Your family wants only to help you.  _ We _ want only to help you. This is why I’ve called you here. I want you to be made aware of what it will mean to stand in a formal trial.” 

 

The door to the chapel opened and a young girl was escorted inside. She couldn’t have been much older than 18, maybe not even. There was a paralyzing fear in her eyes and she trembled as they guided her to sit down. Vevynne couldn’t help but notice something familiar about her. 

 

“You have sworn by the Seven that you will account a true and accurate testimonial of the charges brought against Vevynne Lannister, correct?” 

 

The girl nodded. “Yes, sir.” 

 

Vevynne interjected, still as impartial as she knew how to be under the circumstances. “Remind me of these charges. All of them. I have a right to know exactly what it is I’m being formally accused of.” 

 

“Fornication,” The High Sparrow explained. “And, decidedly much more grave... _ treason _ . Your choice of lover has condemned you.” 

 

Something clicked in her mind, a small ray of hope that had inadvertently presented itself, without expectation, without precedence. 

 

“I would like to hear how the witness intends to testify,” she said, hiding this discovery as best she could behind the weakness dealt to her in captivity. “If it would please the Seven.” 

 

This acknowledgement of Faith may have worked in her favor. The High Sparrow nodded in concession, gestured to the girl to give her account. The girl’s head bowed, perhaps in shame, unable to make eye contact with anyone present. 

 

“I...I saw, on numerous occasions, the accused make nightly visits to Sandor Clegane’s quarters.” 

 

“What reason have you to believe these visits were carnal in nature?” The High Sparrow pressed.

 

“There were...noises. Sounds that might lead one to believe they were engaging in sexual acts.” 

 

Vevynne recalled now where she had seen the girl before. Granted, at the time she had blended into the backdrop of servants that tended the Keep, a scullery maid or some such thing. There was call to resent her, of course, but Vevynne couldn’t find it in her to do such a thing. Undoubtedly the girl bore witness in an attempt to save herself from some accusation or another, her fear was evidence enough that it was her last resort. She knew she would have done no different under the circumstances. 

 

“Did you bear witness to the circumstances surrounding my departure during the Battle of Blackwater?” Vevynne asked, without permission to do so, and thus a Septa moved to strike her. The High Sparrow stopped her before this could happen, but there was confusion and dawning horror in his face of what was unfolding. Something he hadn’t anticipated. 

 

The girl shook her head. “No, my lady.” 

 

“Did anyone?” Vevynne continued, feigning innocence as if she asked only out of naive curiosity. When no one replied to this she concluded, “Then the witness can testify only to the charges of extra marital fornication. On this find I commend you, High Sparrow. Yet, you have no witness, no evidence to the nature of my relationship with Sandor Clegane during and after my departure. As multiple witnesses can and have attested, Sandor Clegane’s treason was an impulsive act,  _ not _ premeditated. On what grounds then, would you condemn me for conspiring with a traitor?”

 

To this he had no answer either. She had successfully cornered him, the little hint she had seen in the fabric of the mess having worked to her advantage. 

“I will confess that I am not perfect. I am, as we all are, a sinner. I have been led away by temptation. But I am not unrepentant, nor am I now or ever have been a traitor to the Throne.” 

 

“The Faith and the Throne now stand together,” The High Sparrow said, staring her down, challengingly. “To reject one is to reject the other.” 

 

“Then I will accept them both as one. I will allow the Faith into my heart. I will live by the teachings and follow the words of the Seven from this day forward, as has my King and Queen.” 

 

She had thusly given him what he had wanted to hear, evident in his satisfied smile. This was to the plan. With some defiance had to come some submission. 

 

“The trial will continue as planned,” he told her. “But the Mother _ is _ merciful. You will no longer stand against accusations of treason, and if you keep the Faith as you promise, if you face the accusation of fornication with honesty and a willingness to repent as you have today, I am confident you will emerge free to marry to your intended, whole and pure again.” 

 

She was further rewarded, allowed to end her imprisonment and return to the Keep to await trial alongside Cersei and Loras. It had cost her though, of course- with each clever lie she grew more and more adept at telling, a piece of her was lost. The world would take her whole before it was all said and one, she was certain, but having been born into the game that was always to be her fate. 


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dire circumstances call for dire means, some degree of further sacrifice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...things may begin to deviate from the canon plot from this point forward. I won't say anything on my personal opinion of the writing from this point but let's just say...I write fanfic for a reason.

The day of the trial loomed over them like a heavy storm cloud. Vevynne was uncertain if she had reason to believe the High Sparrow’s word, though it did seem their ultimate goal was to earn the fealty of everyone to the Faith. She  _ had _ offered that, had successfully rid herself of treason which would no doubt have ended in her execution. She would believe, for the time being, that the trial was merely a formality to ‘clear’ her name, that when it was over she could put to rest all rumors, all slanderous mentions of Sandor’s name for good. 

 

She couldn’t know what it was he chose to do after recovering, if he had gone on to become the sellsword as he planned or if he had selected a purer path. Either way, she wanted to continue in her efforts to allow him to start over. He, at least, could wash his hands of the Lannisters, King’s Landing, the Game. How she  _ wished _ she could do the same. 

 

Cersei came to visit her the night before, an act that was without any precedent. Vevynne didn’t know if it boded well for her or was something she should fear, but she wasn’t going to refuse her company either way. Though the trial’s outcome was uncertain (particularly now that King Tommen had banned Trial by Combat) she chose to press on in her efforts to bond with her cousin. It was a bit of insurance that things might bend her way no matter how the hammer fell. 

 

“Are you frightened?” Cersei asked as they looked over the city together, toward the Sept of Baelor. 

 

“The High Sparrow promised me all would be forgiven if I spoke the truth and accepted the Seven in my heart. I’ve already pledged to do both.” 

 

“I wouldn’t advise that you put much faith in what the High Sparrow promises,” Cersei warned, bitter. Then she turned to Vevynne, that familiar spark of suspicion in her eyes glowing brightly. “I heard you were able drop the charges of  _ treason _ . I was pleased to hear it. I must admit that it was the one accusation of yours that gave me pause.” 

 

“I am, as ever, faithful to my family and my throne. My loyalty seems to shine so bright, even those who condemned me could not look past it.” 

 

Cersei huffed out a laugh. It seemed sufficient enough for her, if only because she thought Vevynne stupid enough to really believe that.

 

“I know we have not always been close,” she said, leaning against the railing of the balcony they stood on. “Or even very amicable. But we have changed, haven’t we? You and I. We’ve suffered similar horrors. We see the world similarly now. We understand that we must protect and hold fiercely to everything we love, lest it be wrenched from our grasp.” 

 

Vevynne said nothing, instead came to stand closer to her cousin, curious as to where this line of reason was leading. 

 

“And yet...darker days are ahead,” Cersei continued. “Dire circumstances call for dire means, some degree of further sacrifice.” Her sharp eyes scanned over the city with intent, plotting something. Imagining something. Perhaps the fire and burning she had spoken of earlier. 

 

Vevynne swallowed, her throat thick, and replied in all honesty, “I understand perfectly.” 

 

Cersei stood up and regarded with a warm smile, ran her fingers through several strands of her long blonde hair. 

 

“I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me. Somehow, I think you will. You are kind and forgiving as Myrcella was...but, much like me, you carry a torch of anger now.” 

 

Vevynne balked. “What am I to forgive you  _ for _ , your Grace? You have done nothing to me.” 

 

Cersei held her gaze for a moment, something in her eyes frightened Vevynne more than they ever had before. A dark purpose flickered within them, but despite herself, she couldn’t decipher what it was. 

 

“Darker days are ahead,” Cersei repeated. “You must prepare yourself for what’s to come.” 

* * *

  
  


She prepared the next morning as everyone did, steeling herself for any possible mind games and manipulation the High Sparrow would see fit to play further. She knew she would have to think quickly, not let the ramping anxiety and fear of the moment play against her wits. She had done it before, surely she could do it again. She would  _ have _ to. 

 

The time was late, intentional on her part as she had no great urgency to stand in front of her father and brother and admit her secretive acts, things that were meant only to be shared between she and Sandor. She longed dearly for those simpler days, when an open secret of a tryst was just that, some idle gossip in the hallway. 

 

But all the same, to her it was so much more. No matter what the Faith claimed, no matter the will of the Seven, she couldn’t believe that what had been so beautiful between them could also be so wrong and deserving of punishment. She remembered understanding, open-hearted Septon Ray, wished it had been him that had been made High Septon; a  _ true,  _ benevolent man of Faith rather than one who played it the same as the rest of them did The Game. 

 

A handmaiden appeared in her quarters then, for the purpose, Vevynne assumed, of reminding her she needed to make haste. Her father and brother were already in attendance, after all, and she  _ knew _ tardiness on her part would not be taken in stride. The handmaiden said instead, 

 

“Her Grace has requested that you accompany the King to the Sept. He has been lingering in his quarters and she feels you both might benefit from each other’s support.” 

 

She was suspicious of this, but a ‘request’ from Cersei really wasn’t that at all- there was no room to refuse. She did as she was bid, walking (with the accompaniment of the handmaiden to see she made it over successfully) to Tommen’s room. She hadn’t seen him properly in a very long time, expecting, perhaps, a man where the little boy she had known once stood. 

 

He had all the outer trappings of a King, the crown and gilded clothes. He stood much taller than before, but the fear in his eyes was every bit still that little boy. His was a look of someone thrust into power much too soon, helplessly facing the consequences of his mother’s actions. She took pity on him. 

 

“It seems we are to accompany each other to the Trial,” Vevynne explained with a sympathetic smile, though she suspected he already knew.  He returned said smile as best he could under the circumstances. 

 

“I’ll be glad of the company,” he said, sincere. “I wouldn’t have liked to make that long walk alone.” 

 

There was much to discuss, perhaps, many of the harrowing events that had taken place over the past few weeks hanging like thick, unbreathable, stale air between them, but neither seemed to have the courage to grace any of it. Not  _ before _ the trial, anyway. 

 

He offered her his arm with as brave a face as he could muster and she accepted, the both of them making their way to the inevitable. 

 

They had barely graced the threshold of his room before an obstacle presented itself. Vevynne had known the approach of the Mountain to be heralded by reverberating footsteps and a deep sense of foreboding.  _ This _ time he had managed to insert himself between them and their path as quiet as a mouse, which was somehow even more fearsome than the familiar alternative. 

 

She couldn’t find a voice in herself to ask for an explanation, Tommen instead attempting to explain that they were late for the Trial and needed to be on their way. The Mountain, of course, didn’t speak, but placed a firm hand on his shoulder to indicate they’d be going  _ nowhere _ . 

 

She looked to her cousin in fear and confusion and he to her, but as he had never been one to defy in any real way, he stepped back. 

 

“We have to go,” she said, almost pleading, to Tommen, knowing nothing would get through to the Mountain...though nothing said to her cousin would be very fruitful either, she supposed. He just cast his eyes towards their captor, helpless. 

 

“Do you think he means to harm us?” Tommen asked after a time, after a moment of them both studying the Mountain with trepidation as he gazed back at  _ them _ . 

 

“No…” she decided, beginning to assemble the scattered puzzle pieces in her mind. “He follows your mother’s sole command. He means to keep us here on her order.”  

 

He was shocked, but still just as perplexed. “Why would my mother make such an order…?” 

 

_ That _ was the question that still hung in the balance. With no other option at her disposal Vevynne walked, with an inexplicable feeling of dread, to the window to survey the Sept. It was obvious that Cersei meant to spare her of the trial, her efforts thus far to win her cousin’s favor having been successful. But why Tommen? He would play no further role in Cersei’s sentencing but to watch. 

 

She meant to spare them of something  _ else _ , something far worse than whatever the Sparrows dictated. Every last enemy Cersei possessed in King’s Landing, huddled in one building. It was  _ convenient _ . 

 

“My father and brother are in there…” she said to no one in particular before surveying the room for some alternative method of escape. The Mountain still watched them. 

 

She knelt before Tommen where he sat, leaning herself close to him, against his knees in some hope to communicate without their captor hearing. 

 

“I know only that we  _ must _ find an escape. The Keep is full of secret passages, do you know of any in this room?”

 

Tommen just gazed at her, still awe struck with the overwhelming confusion of the moment. Vevynne knew she had to do her best not to seem urgent or conspiring but time was against them. She clutched his leg tight in her fingers, burying her nails into his skin. 

 

“Your  _ Queen _ is down there,” she reminded him, her desperation growing. “Her family, _ our _ family. We may be their only option for escape. You must  _ think _ , Tommen.”

 

His eyes flitted to Gregor, she grabbed his face in her hands and turned him to look back at her. 

 

“Do  _ not- _ …! Do not look at him…! Look at me. Be a  _ King _ . Think! Think of anything you may have seen, a trapdoor…! A loose brick…!” 

 

She was grateful that he didn’t ask any more questions, instead nodding in decisive agreement and rising to help her search. They were not as inconspicuous about this effort as they should have been, what with panic beginning to set in and time burning away tauntingly as the sun moved across the sky. 

The Mountain did not take this in stride. 

 

As they moved across the room, as he seemed to discern what they were doing, he grabbed and pinned her arms behind her back, lifting her up in his grasp as easy as picking up a wine goblet. She fought him, despite knowing somewhere inside her this was due for being sloppy and careless. 

 

“Unhand her at once!” Tommen ordered, futile. “Let us pass and go to the Sept! Why will you not let us pass…?!” 

 

The situation rose to a boiling point as she kicked and struggled against a hold that would not bend or break, as Tommen tried so very hard to be the ruler he needed to be...but Gregor was not idly titled and no sooner could they move mountains could they move him. 

 

All the struggling and shouting came to an abrupt halt when a loud explosion rattled the walls of the Keep, made her ears ring. The Mountain had been holding her in such a position that she could see the horrible green clouds, the burst of stone and detritus with perfect clarity. The world then stood eerily still. It may have ended entirely.  

 

She was dropped to the ground at some point, though she felt neither the release nor the impact of the stone. She felt nothing, saw nothing, heard nothing, but the wildfire that had begun to dissipate and the fresh ruins that stood in its wake. 

 

Tommen stood before the window, seeing the same. They might have remained there in numb silence for weeks, days, before a voice (a servant, perhaps) came and told them what they already knew to be true in their hearts. It washed over her like a cold, strong wave of salt water, but she did not move of her own accord. 

 

She was bid to be taken back to her room, though as she did not hear or respond to it, the servant gathered her gently by the arm and took her back on his own. She didn’t remember the journey back through the halls, only the shadowed outline of Tommen standing in front of the window into the destruction, the last she’d see of him. 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mockingbird repeats what she has heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a longer chapter this time around! We're getting into the events of season 7 and plot elements that will begin to deviate from the show. Be aware there IS more or less explicit sex stuff in this chapter, though not between the advertised pairing. Lol, sorry. I'm not pairing her off with anyone new, don't worry, it'll make sense when you get there. Hopefully it won't be too gross, idk how yall feel about the second person involved but whatever. Skip past it I guess if it's too much. Anyway I'm becoming quite attached to Vevynne and made her a little graphic you'll see at the start of the chapter.

 

 

It was different from when she heard of Martyn and Willem’s deaths, back when her heart still had pain yet to feel. Perhaps it was because she hadn’t been there to witness them suffer. Perhaps that had been the last vestige of grief she could allow herself to endure without wasting away completely. The death of Lancel and her father instilled nothing. She felt nothing, she breathed and ate  _ nothing _ . She saw nothing but the silent image in her mind of the Sept shattering in bright emerald flames, consuming all. It was all she thought of, all she felt she really knew anymore. 

 

She wondered if she had died with Tommen and didn’t remember, existing as a ghost might within her quarters; invisible, unfeeling, cold. If anyone acknowledged her presence in this span of time she was willfully unaware of it. How long had it been? It didn’t matter. Did  _ anything _ matter? Perhaps not. 

 

She wasn’t expecting Cersei to visit her personally in her quarters one evening, much less that her presence would be the conclusion of this  _ nothingness _ . 

 

“I think you’ve suffered in silence long enough.” 

 

_ That  _ was her greeting, coupled with a sympathetic smile and a caress to Vevynne’s untempered hair as if she were her pet. Perhaps she was. 

 

Vevynne said nothing, unable to think of how to reply and apathetic to the fact. Cersei continued, “I did  _ warn _ you, cousin. I did say that I hoped you would find it in your heart to forgive me.” 

 

“I find nothing in my heart,” Vevynne replied, her voice sounding almost foreign from how little use it had gotten for so long. “I feel nothing. I am nothing.” 

 

“ _ That _ is most certainly not true,” Cersei corrected, guiding her to sit down in front of her, grabbing a brush so as to tend to her unkempt locks and relive some backwards memory of what they had bonded over nights ago. “You are my kin, and most importantly, my ally. That counts for everything now.” 

 

Something surged in her, a small kindling of some kind or another but not enough yet to identify. 

 

“I know you must feel no small amount of grief for the loss of your brother and father.” The reminder of it, the mentioning of it from Cersei’s voice, specifically, made that kindling begin to spark. “And though you may be sweet and naive, I  _ won’t _ pretend you don’t know it wasn’t a tragic accident.”  

 

Cersei paused from her grooming to lean close to Vevynne’s ear and whisper out in a hiss, “I know  _ you _ know it was me.” 

 

The kindling sizzled, the sparks began to crackle and pop. 

 

She returned to her work, continuing, “Anger on your part towards me would be due. You may even choose to hate me, though you  _ must _ know by now that would be foolish. It never ends well for those who defy me...and I so dearly want to see things end well for you.” 

 

A flame emerged inside her from the sparking embers. She grit her jaw. 

 

“You may have loved them, cousin, as we all are obligated to love those that share our blood. But you mustn’t so soon forget how they’ve always treated you. Lancel would have had you endure the same horrors as me in the name of making you  _ pure _ again. Your father saw you as little more than a piece of meat to dangle in front of the most willing noble house. A  _ broodmare _ for his name.” 

 

In this she knew there was truth, as there was for any woman born into a noble house...but she would also not soon forget how her father had loved her in those last few precious days. How she  _ wished _ there could have been more.

 

“I have freed you from all of that,” Cersei argued as she deftly worked to weave braids into her hair. “There was no other choice, you see. Not for us. Fire is terrible, but it is cleansing. And dear Lancel is with his beloved Seven now, isn’t he? Perhaps we all get a bit of what we want in the end.” 

 

The small flame within her flickered and flared again as Cersei fell back on that familiar, mocking tone of voice. They were her kin too, and yet, this was all a very delicious joke. 

 

‘ _ I freed myself _ ,’ Vevynne wanted to say. ‘ _ I could do it again.’  _  But of that, she was no longer sure. Being under Cersei’s approval was meant to be a protective measure, for herself, for all those she loved...and yet, it felt more a prison than any she had been locked in before.

 

A question emerged in her mind, one that fell from her lips before she could contemplate the wisdom of voicing outloud. 

 

“Why did you spare me? Of what use am I?” 

 

“Allies will always have their uses.” 

 

A definitive reply and all she got before Cersei had finished with her hair. She stroked her work again for a bit, admiring it and perhaps something else besides, before she said, “My handmaidens have been instructed to cut their hair to the length of my own...but I would prefer you keep yours as it is.” 

 

_ That _ was more of an answer than the prior reply. Hadn’t she compared her locks to Myrcella’s? Hadn’t she likened her to her late daughter on more than one account? 

 

When Cersei finally left the flames within Vevynne grew to a fever pitch and she steeled herself against the window to contain it. That was of little use, as even in the dim moonlight she could see the rubble of the Sept where her father and brother had been trapped and cooked alive. The memory of the explosion repeated over and over and over again in her mind as a rage of the kind she had never known mirrored that same burst of ferocious energy. 

 

There was no doubt of it now. 

 

Cersei had to be destroyed. 

* * *

 

The coronation had been the worst of it all, having to watch from where she was bid to stand with the court as Cersei took what she had stolen with fire and ruin. There was no great rejoicing that she had recalled from some coronations past, no hopeful eyes within the crowd, only those of a people who were too frightened of their new monarch to do or say otherwise. The Iron Throne had never been a birthright, not really. It was a coveted prize at the heart of things, given to anyone that could shed the most blood to earn it. 

 

No enemy of Cersei lived long enough to see their efforts rewarded, no matter how clever they were, no matter how honorable, how strong. If Vevynne did not feel she had nothing to lose she might have found the same fear as the rest of King’s Landing, but that was no longer the case. She was alone in the world, accompanied and driven only by the rage that consumed her. She would only regret a death that did not take Cersei with it. 

 

Tempering this, however, was the wisdom enough to know that defying the new Queen openly would not work. Coming after her with steel or even poison would  _ not _ work. She had no doubt in her mind that Cersei was but one head of a much larger beast, one that would come for the throne the moment the seat was empty and as focused as she was on revenge, the future of the realm still mattered to her in some measure. This required a certain amount of waiting, biding her time, playing the part and  _ planning _ . 

 

She kept eyes open and wits about her at all times for some sort of answer, some clue as to what she might do to begin carefully, slowly, dismantling Cersei’s reign. The days of serving her stretched on, she was made to be closer to her at all times which, in some ways, made her covert efforts difficult...and in some ways, not. 

 

For instance, this new accompaniment by Cersei’s side as makeshift, replacement daughter or whatever position it was she had, allowed her more insight into Qyburn’s full duties. She thought it odd when they visited him one day to find him handing sweets and trinkets to raggedy Flea Bottom urchins. When she had the audacity to ask, he explained (with an unconvincing smile) that it was just a bit of charity he tried to spread to those less fortunate. 

 

They all thought her  _ so stupid _ , they always had, and for the first time she relished this. Let them think so, let them pity her for her naivete while the memory of catching Lord Varys doing similarly years ago popped back up in her mind. 

 

‘ _ His little birds’  _ she thought, spread all over the city. She tucked this concept away as one would a tool that might be of use to them later, still assembling the pieces of this mosaic together in her mind. 

 

That usefulness was revealed to her when she overheard a conversation with Cersei and the newly-returned Jaime, as she drifted through the shadows of the Red Keep, not far from the Queen’s heels. It had been her method over the past few days. 

 

She learned that Tyrion had been named the Dragon Queen’s Hand, that they were on their way to reclaim Dragonstone. She’d heard many things about Daenerys Targaryen in recent years- these days, mainly, those reports came in the form of Cersei mulling over how to defeat her. Vevynne only saw true fear in her eyes when she spoke of Daenerys, regardless of how avidly she tried to hide it behind a veil of confidence in her position. 

 

It was difficult not to revere the concept of a woman who rode on the backs of dragons, who broke the chains of slaves and held armies of Unsullied and Dothraki at her back, with allies in the Dornish, the Tyrells and the Iron Islands. Still, she had been as hesitant and fearful as anyone of the power she held and the family history of madness, but it was becoming clear that sides needed to be chosen. If cousin Tyrion, with his cleverness and insightful knowledge of character, thought she was to be championed then perhaps she ought to do the same. Cersei, at least, was an  _ assured _ danger.

 

Jaime argued the helpless position they were in, far weaker than Cersei had ever made it out to be. He pushed that they needed better allies after the death of the Freys, a murder that had no clear perpetrator. Vevynne wondered then, inexplicably, what had become of Arya in all of this. 

 

“We’re the last Lannisters,” Cersei had said. “The last ones who  _ count _ .” 

 

She spoke, of course, only about herself and Jaime, as if Vevynne needed any other confirmation of the fact that their ‘bond’ was as superficial as they came. Cersei would throw her to the wolves as soon as it benefitted her, just as she had her brother and father. 

 

But Vevynne got careless and was noticed by Cersei’s observational gaze. She missed nothing, not even a dress hem floating out from beside the wall she thought she was hidden behind. 

 

“Vevynne, darling,” she beckoned, her tone curt. “Why do you linger in the shadows?” 

 

She could curse herself, but elected instead to come out and look as doe-eyed and embarrassed as they expected her to be. 

 

“Forgive me, your Grace. I wished to stay near your side without interrupting.” 

 

“Interrupt next time,” Cersei ordered. “It’s very unsettling to have you sneaking about like a rat.” 

 

“I swear I wasn’t sneaking, your Grace, I was just-” 

 

Cersei gave her a wan smile that was command enough for her to shut up. She took Vevynne’s chin in her hands, caressed her jaw with her thumb. 

 

“Isn’t she lovely?” she mused to Jaime. “Our dear little cousin. I admit I did not see her virtues for many years, but she has proven herself a loyal friend to me. A bit slow, perhaps, but I find I rather like that. It isn’t  _ at all _ irritating, not like Lancel’s obliviousness.” 

 

Jaime nodded to her in greeting, though his gaze on her was such that he didn’t seem to subscribe to the same impression Cersei had accepted. 

 

“I was devastated to hear about Ser Kevan and Lancel’s deaths. That must have come as a great shock.” 

 

He continued to study her, his intent not simply to express condolences. He knew of Cersei’s masterminding and was no doubt trying to discover the reason Vevynne still pledged herself to her family’s murderer. Perhaps he suspected she was complicit. It was the assumption she hoped for, anyway. 

 

Either way, Jaime  _ knew  _ there was more to her intentions and person than naive little servant and it was no good trying to pretend otherwise. As such, her eyes became sharp and locked with his. 

 

“Yes. A great shock indeed. A tragic accident that has left me alone in the world, save for my Queen’s company, for which I am endlessly grateful. She has been my savior.” 

 

“How fortunate that you were not in the line of fire with them,” he pressed. “A great stroke of luck to be late for one’s own trial, yes?” 

 

She allowed a knowing smile to play at the corner of her mouth, only for him to see. This visibly disturbed him.  

 

“Yes. The Queen’s allies are favored and blessed by the Gods.”  

 

Cersei linked arms with her, pleased with this assessment.

“Come,” she bid the both of them. “We have guests arriving soon and must prepare accordingly.” 

* * *

  
  


Her reveal during Cersei and Jaime’s conversation could not be repeated, she knew this. One slip up could be easily dismissed as her own ‘idiocy’ and clumsiness getting in the way but for it to happen again would mean risking her position. Jaime already suspected her of  _ something _ , after all. As such, that thought about  _ little birds _ , Qyburn and Varys’ use for them occurred to her again, this time in the form of how she might use that tactic to her own advantage. 

 

She would begin to place eyes and ears where she could, all the while scheming on how she might gain a secret contact with Dragonstone. Ravens were too obvious and could be easily intercepted, but there had to be another way. 

 

Bit by bit she watched Qyburn, pieced together who was already listening for him and chose her own observers from those left over. She prepared sweets of her own to give to children new enough to the Keep to not already be in service, but quiet and knowledgeable enough to traverse its passages and shadows. She promised more if they would bring her back things they had heard. 

 

She enlisted adults as well, servants with strategic positions around the Keep that would listen and convey with rewards of a bit more pay than they were used to. She’d been given access to Ser Kevan’s funds and the wealth of Casterly Rock, which allowed her to do this without being noticed. 

 

She thought of Arya again. She thought of her a great deal these days, wondering if this had been the path she’d hoped to set her on. It was the best she could do for the time being, hesitating on gaining contact with Dragonstone until she had feasible means of doing so and information of use to pass on. Little by little though her communicators passed things on to her and her knowledge of what went on in the Keep expanded. She made mental note of everything. 

 

Cersei, meanwhile, had said little of the aforementioned guests that were expected, much less that they would be arriving in a massive swath of Iron Fleet ships. This is how she learned of Euron Greyjoy, the Uncle of Yara and Theon who had returned to claim power. He had managed to do so, it seemed, but now his eyes were turned to King’s Landing. 

 

He made his case before them, what was  _ left _ of the Lannisters, as Cersei sat on the throne and Jamie, herself, and Qyburn flanked her. Euron was devious, smooth-talking and driven by an intent far darker than he was letting on, but when he revealed his motive as wanting to marry “the most beautiful woman in the world”, Cersei was keen to oblige him. He had been speaking of a Queen, of course. Nevertheless…

 

“How fortunate, then, that I have her in my service,” she said, that calculating smile playing on her face. Vevynne’s blood ran cold. “Do you know of my cousin, Vevynne?” 

 

She beckoned her to step forward, and what else could she do but oblige? Present herself as the  _ piece of meat _ intended to be dangled in front of the Kraken. Allies had their uses, after all. 

 

“Aye, she is a beauty,” Euron agreed as he surveyed her up and down. “As all Lannister women are. But my proposal is for a  _ Queen _ .”

 

“As my children are gone, I have named Vevynne my heir,” Cersei replied without skipping a beat. “She is no Queen today, but she is young. Fertile. Loyal.  _ Obliging _ .”

 

The room grew still when Cersei made this announcement, though Vevynne knew better than to believe it. She was far more concerned with Euron’s increasing interest in her, evident in how he licked his lips and leered harder. 

 

“My interest is peaked,” he admitted with a lascivious grin.

 

Cersei allowed him to revel in this offer for a moment before amending, “But we decline your proposal.” 

 

Euron was taken back, to which she explained that he was not trustworthy and had turned on allies before. The bait was taken, and he promised to bring back a  _ gift _ that proved his honest intentions. 

 

He gave Vevynne a wink before turning on his heel to do just that. 

 

* * *

 

She could’ve let her anger stew further over Cersei’s bait and switch, excusing the murder of her father on his using her as a ‘broodmare’ when she had done just the same. Vevynne supposed she  _ was _ angry, but there was no surprise in this turn of events and simply being mad about it forever was not going to accomplish anything. She was on a mission now and if Cersei intended to use her as a prize she would do her best to live up to that, to use it to her own gain. 

 

As such, she snuck out to the Iron Fleet without permission, utilized what she had been learning of stealth, her own charm, to weasel her way into a private meeting with Euron in his cabin. When he discovered her there, waiting for him, he was in no way objecting. 

 

“You’re here on the Queen’s order, I trust?” he suggested, though the glint in his eye and mischievous smirk said that he knew full-well she wasn’t. 

 

“Oh  _ yes _ ,” Vevynne replied, sarcastic but intentionally flirtatious. “Cersei thought it only wise and reasonable that I make an unaccompanied detour to your cabin.”

 

“I have to assume you’re  _ pleased _ with her arrangement for you then? Did you  _ beg _ her for it? Did you hear the stories about me and develop a little fascination?”

 

The way he looked at her- it was difficult to tell if he wanted to fuck her or slowly skin her alive and eat the remains. Vevynne decided it was safer to assume he wanted both. 

 

He had propped a foot up on a crate next to where she sat, leaned against his knee and lowered himself closer to her, close enough that she could smell the stench of the rotten things in the sea and too much alcohol. 

 

“I knew very little of you before you arrived,” she replied, playing coy. “I know very little of you now...though I’d be lying if I said seeing you for the first time wasn’t enough to to gauge my interest. I came to become better acquainted with the man that may become my husband.” 

 

“ _ Will _ be your husband,” he corrected, brushing her hair from her shoulder. She resisted the urge to shudder in disgust at his touch. 

 

“I have known great men. Great lovers. I was betrothed to Dickon Tarly for a time- a lovely, honorable man. You may have also heard, or  _ will _ hear, of my time with The Hound. He fucked me raw, again and again. I felt I would never desire another. That doesn’t bother you?”   

 

He slinked his way to the space beside her (intentionally on his bed) and helped himself to the space he had made on her neck, nuzzling and brushing his lips there. A hand found its way down her back, to seize her hip and pull her against him. 

 

“You have never known  _ me _ ,” he assured and she could still feel that  _ fucking _ grin against her skin. There was nothing that would shake his confidence, it seemed. In Euron’s eyes, the world was already his and her, a bit of a snack to tide him over in the meanwhile. “But you will. I will put them all to shame. You will remember no cock but my own.” 

 

He couldn’t see her face from this point, so she allowed herself to roll her eyes in irritation. What a pathetic excuse of a man. Nevertheless. 

 

“You seem very confident,” she commended, trying to make her pushing of his shoulder seem more an effort to look at him rather than just to get him _ away _ . “And yet you must realize Cersei will consent to nothing without proper proof. She is very fond of me. She is  _ more _ fond of her Throne and legacy. She will not hand it over idly.” 

 

And because she knew she would have to give more to receive more, she playfully loosened the strings of his doublet to run a hand through the fur of his chest. It was much more sunken in than Sandor’s, she thought. Sandor could have,  _ would _ have broken him in two like a twig. 

 

“I can’t help but wonder what prize you intend to give,” she mused, pushing the side of her gown down her shoulder. “What could be so precious, so remarkable, as to convince Cersei to put aside  _ all _ her distrust? She is not easily won.” 

 

Euron had no intention of continuing to the play the game of flirtation and promise of more, starved as he must have been for a woman’s body. He pushed his lips against hers, hard and insistent, ravenous and entitled, and made to press her back against the bed and take what he seemed to think they both wanted. 

 

Vevynne knew her plan would come to this logical conclusion, but she had already resolved to herself that if it  _ must _ , she would hold the cards, she would hold the power. Thankfully he delighted in it when she pushed him on his back and straddled his lap, when she loosened her gown and let it fall just a hair’s breadth from the peak of her breasts. 

 

“You  _ must _ tell me,” she baited, rolling her hips against his (almost aggressively), making him cackle and throw his head back in pleasure. “I cannot  _ stand _ not knowing.”

 

She grew impatient when he did not immediately answer, so she let her gown fall, let him marvel at her exposed breasts and knead them in his hands. Her body betrayed her to some extent, warring between revulsion and unavoidable arousal when he plucked at her nipples (however haphazard). 

 

“What would your Queen say to the  _ burning _ of the stolen Iron Fleet? An ally lost for the Dragon bitch.” 

 

Though he continued the swaggering confidence play, his voice was broken with lust. She held him in a vice grip now.

 

“Surely that is not  _ all _ ,” she pushed, untying the laces of his trousers to allow his fully erect manhood free. A hand wrapping around him, stroking and twisting, wrenched out of him, “The Dornish as well. I will bring Ellaria Sand to her alive, to do with as she wishes. Is the chance for cold blooded revenge sufficient  _ enough _ ? What do you think, pet?”

 

“Oh yes, I think that would be of  _ great _ use.”   

 

She had what she needed, and though the thought occurred to her to go ahead and fuck him anyway as irritation with him or not, he  _ had _ his uses, she slipped from his lap, stood up and returned herself to modesty. 

 

“The  _ fuck _ are you doing?” he demanded to know, though his breath was labored and he was still too blown out from her attentions to do much of anything about it. “Get back here.” 

 

“I cannot give all of myself,” she explained in an innocent tone of voice, though her eyes were sharp, pointed at him. “Not yet. The Queen would not approve.”

 

He shook his head, still fucking  _ grinning _ . Perhaps he admired this in some way, even if he had been left high and dry. 

 

“The Queen would not approve of you sneaking away to play with my cock for a bit, either.” 

 

“ _ No _ ,” she agreed. “But I had to get a look at what’s been promised to me and I liked what I saw. Now, you’ve had yours. Bring back what you promise and you can do with me as you like.” 

 

And then, she left, as swiftly (and with as much intent) as he had from the Keep. 

 

* * *

  
  


She had gotten what she needed, albeit to some compromise to her own dignity. The ability to lie and manipulate had disturbed her before, had made her feel as if she was losing bits of herself, willingly, piece by piece...but with a larger, essential goal in place and a heart that now felt it was made of stone, it didn’t seem to matter that much anymore. She had no one; she lived now only for the benefit of the realm, for revenge, and fully expected these efforts would get her killed in the end. 

 

She was alive for now, and the moment had come for her to make swift contact with Dragonstone. If it was  _ not _ Daenerys Targaryen she was choosing, it was the last relative she felt she had any call to trust. She would write to Tyrion.

 

Vevynne took a seat at her desk, pulled parchment and quill, and wondered how she could convey a message so that, if intercepted, there would be no obvious clue of what she spoke of...but obvious enough to Tyrion so that he would know who she was and that she was genuine. There was still the matter of transport, too. 

 

She leaned her head against her clenched fist, determined not to let this bit of logistics stand in between her and potentially making a very big difference, though frustration had begun to consume her. It couldn’t all end here. She wouldn’t have it. 

As she pondered a familiar friend landed on the windowsill in front of her, a female mockingbird that had been making routine visits to her window for the promise of breadcrumbs. They had something of an idle, mutually beneficial relationship; the bird would get fed, Vevynne would take a small pleasure in seeing a last living vestige of the fleeting Summer. The bird’s call reminded her of warmer days at Casterly Rock, sweeter times that she may never know again. 

 

They had built trust enough that the bird began to allow her to stroke her chest and head, gently with two fingertips (after offering crumbs). 

 

“I shall  _ have _ to give you a name,” Vevynne said with the first genuine smile she had known in a very long time. “We can’t go on like this without a proper name. But what suits something as lovely as you?”

 

She thought on it a moment, grateful for the distraction from tougher puzzles. It came to her easily. 

 

“ _ Secret _ ,” she decided. “Because you are my Secret, aren’t you, love? Secrets may have a troubling reputation, but they have been the cause of some of my greatest happiness.” 

 

Vevynne mused on the name, on the loveliness of her little friend (the only one she had left, really), of the similarities between them in that they both often went unnoticed, unappreciated, but knew every word everyone said in hushed voices and shadowed corners. 

 

Secret seemed approving of her new name, indicating this by fluttering upwards to land on Vevynne’s shoulder. It felt almost as if she wanted to  _ observe _ the letter writing, perhaps offer some aid- the idea was inspiring, silly though it may have been. 

 

But that small joke of a thought planted a seed in her mind that began to germinate, blossom and fruit at an excelled rate. 

 

“I don’t suppose  _ you _ deliver letters?” she asked Secret, stroking her chest. “I don’t suppose you  _ could _ …? A mockingbird...no one would think-...” 

 

She didn’t expect a reply, but Secret hopped back to her position the desk, squared her beady black eyes with Vevynne’s, nodded her head towards the parchment as if...as if agreeing. As if  _ telling _ her to write. 

 

“This is madness,” Vevynne laughed, but as she no longer really knew what that  _ meant _ anymore and was desperate for options,  _ any _ options, she did as she was ‘told’. 

 

_ A mockingbird may seem like an idle performer, a bard that can do nothing but repeat songs she has heard played before. And yet, in repetition there are stories. In stories, there is knowledge. The mockingbird has heard one recently, a terrible tale of monsters rising unexpected from the sea. The mockingbird knows of a Kraken with a thirst for blood as red as his eye. The mockingbird knows he is as merciless as he is arrogant. The mockingbird suspects the Kraken thinks himself a victor already, knows he will win- but he does not know that she knows his story, one that has yet to be told, of those in anticipation of his coming, readied and able to defend themselves against what he hopes to take. She knows of other monsters, made of Iron and born of saltwater, just as powerful as he. She knows of snakes that he would grab and crush with his tentacles, but whose venom could kill him in one bite- if they are knowing. If they are ready.  _

 

_ The mockingbird knows of dragons too. She wishes, however futile, that she may fly alongside them. She lives now in a gilded cage and dreams of escape.  _

 

_ The mockingbird repeats what she has heard.   _

 

The mention of a ‘gilded cage’ was an attempt at a small, buried clue for Tyrion, a phrase he had used once in conversation with her years ago to refer to the Red Keep and life of a highborne as a whole. She didn’t know if it would be sufficient, but it was all she could insert without the letter looking like something other than flowery gibberish to those who wouldn’t know better. 

 

She then wrapped the parchment up in a tightly bound cylinder and looked to Secret who still sat there on the desk, still surveyed her as if with anticipation. 

 

“Do you know where Dragonstone is?” she asked, still thinking this all a bit strange, not expecting an answer. Secret gave one to her nonetheless, chirping out a tune and pulling at the parchment with her beak. “ _ That _ is where you must fly. You must find a small man, no one else. You’ll know when you see him.” 

 

Vevynne had to trust that all of this would mean something, that she wasn’t just losing her mind in all her rage and loss. It was the only option. 

 

She tied the small bit of paper to Secret’s leg and then, as if on cue, she fluttered out the window. Vevynne watched as she soared over rooftops of King’s Landing, disappeared into the blue of the sky.   


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mockingbird warns of trampled roses...and scorpions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I REALLY appreciate those of you that are still invested in this story even though we've gotten quite far afield of the advertised pairing. In truth, when I began this it was never meant to go on THIS long, but as I've always kind of wanted my own little person to navigate the complex politics of GoT world, Vevynne kind of began to fill that niche. WORRY NOT THOUGH. Our lovers WILL be reunited. Sandor WILL come back (I miss him SO much) I PROMISE. I'm also relishing the chance for Vevynne to grow as a character independent of a love interest and it's rather in the nature of the storytelling for characters to be separated for long stretches of time, kind of grow into their own thing, and then find each other again. It's coming. I promise. Hopefully all this stuff in the meanwhile is as fun for you as it is for me.

The next step in Cersei’s plan involved calling the Tyrell bannerman to her aid, no doubt inspired by Jaime’s reminder that they were lacking in viable allies. Vevynne was present for all of it, of course, the degradation of the Dragon Queen’s character as a malicious tyrant. She sometimes didn’t know what to believe of all the stories- was she fierce? Was she benevolent? Was she dangerous? Was she every bit the mad Targaryen her father was? Vevynne only knew that Cersei was all of those things. Everyone here  _ knew _ what she had done to the Sept and all those inside. They stood here not in loyalty, but fear, to the point that Vevynne didn’t really understand the point of Cersei’s pretending otherwise. 

 

_ Protecting the people.  _ It was a joke, one of the best she had told so far. 

 

This meeting in King’s Landing involved, of course, the Tarlys who had been allies of the Tyrells for generations. This meant once again seeing her former betrothed Dickon, a potential marriage that had more or less dissolved and blown into the wind with the dust of the Sept. She had no great regret of that, though Dickon was at least kind and honorable and easily to tolerate, unlike the man who vied for her hand now. 

 

She felt it due to meet with him afterwards, when the various nobles had retired for the obligatory refreshments and stonefaced conversing. She would have birds enough listening in on those dialogues to not concern herself with being among them. 

 

“I’m very grateful our paths have crossed again,” Dickon said as they strolled side by side in the courtyard, just as they had at Casterly Rock. Simpler times, though they hadn’t seemed that way then. “Though...perhaps the circumstances are less than desirable. I was very sorry to hear of Ser Kevan’s death.” 

 

She smiled sadly. It was a sentiment she heard often these days and she was running out of creative ways to answer it. 

 

“Yes...the pain was difficult to bear. Thankfully I have a very dear friend in our Queen. She has been my comfort and my strength.” 

 

Vevynne was grateful that Dickon either knew better than to point out Cersei’s masterminding of the Sept explosion or simply wasn’t aware. The latter, most likely. He was blissfully, charmingly naive, as ever. 

 

“I also must admit some degree of selfishness,” he continued. “I had been looking forward to our wedding day. I don’t suppose there’s any chance of that blossoming to fruition now?” 

 

“I’m afraid not,” she replied, honest and with a bit of regret. She did not wish to hurt him. “Something else has since been arranged for me. It was a strategic decision on Cersei’s behalf. That’s how all of these things go, you know that.” 

 

Taking pity on him and feeling guilt for how things unfolded, however out of her control, she linked arms with him and held him to her tight. She had some degree of fondness for him, though it was not and never could be love. 

 

“You _ are _ preferable to Euron Greyjoy, I admit,” she commended. “There’s no great compliment in that, but it is the truth nonetheless. The woman that does someday become your wife will be very lucky indeed.” 

 

They shared a moment of companionable silence in the twilight of the evening, an unfamiliar chill rising up in the wind that was unknown to any summer she had ever lived through. A promise of impending winter. It seemed to remind them both of the darker days that loomed ahead. 

 

“That is...if there is future enough to procure one,” he said after a time, apprehension in his voice. “My father intends to pledge House Tarly to yours for support in the wars to come.” 

 

Vevynne stopped them both in their tracks. 

 

“That would mean opposing the Tyrells…” she pointed out- obvious, but no less perplexing. “ _ Overtaking _ them.” 

 

Dickon nodded, shame riddled in his face. 

 

“I take no pride in it, but I have no stake to question my father. It seems Highgarden is the next target of the Lannister army. There are resources there, wealth. I suppose it makes sense.” 

 

It was like a bolt of lightning hitting her at once. She hadn’t taken Dickon aside with the intention of gathering information, but he had supplied. He would, of course. He was sweet and foolish and wouldn’t have thought anything of it. 

 

“I’m sorry,” she consoled. “I know it will be difficult...but your support of our efforts is greatly appreciated.” 

 

He took her hands in his own, pressed a kiss to her knuckles. 

 

“I will always think of what might have been,” he admitted. “The life we might have had.” 

 

The combination of sympathy, guilt, and that light fondness for him pushed her onto the balls of her feet, to press a sweet parting kiss to his lips. There was no further intention behind it other than to express the same regret. When faced with the prospect of being tied to Euron Greyjoy for the rest of her days, wedding Dickon did not seem so horrible a thing. It never was, in truth. 

 

“So will I,” she said after having pulled back, though it was something of a lie. 

There was another she still thought of in that way, someone that she knew she’d never see again, much less share any kind of a future with. It was  _ him _ she’d think about in her silent, dark moments, always. But as Dickon was leaving for battle and very likely to die in the efforts (as they all might when this was all said and done) she saw no harm in giving him that bit of herself, if only for a moment. 

 

* * *

 

“You were fond of him?” Cersei asked of Dickon as they walked together to meet Qyburn below the Keep. She had bid Vevynne accompany her just after her meeting with her former betrothed, catching a brief glimpse of the kiss they had shared. 

 

“Yes, your Grace,” Vevynne replied- not a lie. “I did not know him long, but he is a kind, honorable man. I would not have minded having him as my husband.” 

 

“It wasn’t the same sort of fondness, I suppose, as the kind you held for The Hound.” 

 

Vevynne grit her jaw. She had thought it blasphemous of Dickon and everyone else to speak of Sandor at all, but when Cersei did it (once again, in that taunting voice) it made her all but boil over with rage. She held it inside her, somehow. 

 

“No, your Grace,” she managed, though it was all she could say without incurring the Queen’s wrath. 

 

Cersei sighed, feigning regret. “And now you have neither, and an arrogant, swaggering codfish of a man to replace them.”  

 

“Not of  _ my _ choosing, your Grace,” Vevynne amended, betraying her efforts to be docile and agreeable against the rising anger. 

 

Cersei stopped them where they were, taking a rough grasp of Vevynne’s chin to force her to meet her gaze. 

 

“No, not of  _ your _ choosing,” she hissed. “If we conducted marriages by  _ your _ choosing you’d be off in a shack somewhere pushing out Pups. I have taken you in after your public embarrassment. I have been kind to you, loved you, named you my  _ heir _ . If you hope to be my successor you will have to learn the benefits of advantageous matches...that, and that one does not defy the will of her Queen. I thought you’d have known  _ that _ by now, at least, now that I’ve boiled your father and brother alive. Do not question me again.”    

 

She pushed her away, leaving Vevynne with eyes burning with tears- as had been the intention, no doubt. 

 

“In any case,” she continued, her voice casual as if nothing had happened. “Marriages can have a mysterious way of ending prematurely. If you remain obedient and find you still don’t like him, it can perhaps be arranged when he is no longer of use to us...but I recommend, dear heart, that you give him a fair chance. A Dog is no true match for a Kraken, after all.” 

 

They continued on their path, Vevynne now some steps behind the Queen. It was a mercy, she thought, that she had no weapons on her person at the time. Had she a dagger or some such thing tucked away, the temptation would’ve been too great to drive it into Cersei’s back right then and there. 

 

_ The time will come _ , she reminded herself. 

 

They arrived down below to Qyburn holding a torch, drawing them into one space in the Keep she had yet to visit. It was a crypt to the Targaryen rule: derelict, tattered flags of red dragons strewn carelessly about, dragon skulls that gradually dwindled in size scattered about alongside them. He led to them the largest and most fearsome of them all, the skull of Balerion the Dread. Though only bone and long dead, Vevynne still found the breath taken from her in fear, as if the jaws might open of their own accord at any moment. 

 

The sight reminded her that the Dragon Queen had three of these, even  _ larger _ , perhaps, and all alive. An odd combination of trepidation and curiosity to see them for herself swirled with her. 

 

“Powerful,” Qyburn said. “But not invincible.” 

 

He then made mention of the fact that one of Daenerys’ dragons had been wounded by spears in the Mereen fighting pits- as such, it stood to reason that they  _ could _ be killed. He had just the solution, what looked to be a huge, artillerized crossbow that he revealed with the pull of cloth. He invited Cersei to test its abilities. She did so by pulling a lever and launching a long, powerful arrow into Balerion’s eye socket. 

 

“It’s  _ fascinating _ , your Grace,” Vevynne marveled, like a child overlooking a curio. “Do they have a name, Lord Hand? I fear I’m rather ignorant when it comes to artillery.” 

 

Qyburn beamed with pride. “They are called  _ Scorpions _ , Lady Vevynne, so named for their quick and deadly strike.” 

 

“How many of them do you plan to commission?” 

 

“Hundreds, at least. Perhaps thousands. However many her Grace sees fit to use against the enemy.” 

 

Cersei had grown tired of what she saw as the questions of a dumb child and brought their back-and-forth to its end. 

“This is more than sufficient,” she commended him. “See that efforts are doubled in production at once.” 

 

_ Both _ women left then, pleased with their spoils. 

 

* * *

  
  
  


She had been waiting, not so patiently, to see Secret at her windowsill again. After several days had gone by she’d given up hope entirely that Dragonstone would reciprocate her message; now, she worried only for her little friend’s wellbeing, eager to know that she had at least made the journey there and back without issue. Vevynne wasn’t sure she could live with herself knowing she’d put her bird in danger for the sake of a rather far-fetched effort...but then, she  _ had _ volunteered herself, hadn’t she? It did seem that way, at least. 

 

She’d been crocheting by the window one evening, chancing occasional glances at the window, when Secret returned. It was with a swift flutter and a chirp when she  _ wasn’t _ looking, causing her to almost jump several feet in the air from shock. She’d been on edge lately for more reasons than one, after all. 

 

“My darling!” she greeted her with a huge sigh of relief, so pleased that Secret had returned unharmed she was only a tiny bit disappointed that it seemed her message was still tied to her leg. The parchment looked just the same as the kind she had written it on, and while she didn’t know what kind they used in Dragonstone she figured she already knew the answer. She granted Secret some larger breadcrumbs than usual and some gentle pets in reward, before sighing again (this time, in defeat) and unraveling the note to make sure it was her own. 

 

Her mouth gradually fell open as she read. 

 

_ Though many may ignore the repeated stories of the Mockingbird, the Spider listens and finds himself intrigued. A spider among dragons, a bird among lions. They are anomalies, ignored and underestimated, that know of every secret the beasts think protected among them. The Spider would very much like to hear any more stories the Mockingbird sees fit to tell him. The dragons are listening too and may see fit to rescue said bird from her gilded cage if she continues to be a helpful friend.  _

 

Vevynne recognized the name immediately as one adopted by Lord Varys. She might have squealed with glee that her efforts were successful, but that would mean garnering attention to her room and  _ that  _ she tried her best to keep silent as often as she could. 

 

In light of recent events, she felt she had _ just _ the kind of story the Spider and his dragons would find interesting. 

 

“I’m sorry, my darling,” she apologized to Secret in advance as she rushed to her desk and hastened with parchment and quill. “I know you must be tired, but I will have to ask another journey of you. Things are moving quickly now.” 

 

_ The Mockingbird is grateful to the Spider for his attention. Many stories are being told now, many that the Mockingbird hopes will aid and protect the dragons in the days to come. The Mockingbird relays a story of former friendship between archers and gardners, one that will come to an abrupt end. The lions, charming as ever, turn their eyes to the spoils of the garden, an effort that the archers have elected to assist with. The Mockingbird warns of trampled roses...and scorpions. Just as snakes have venom that could fell the largest of creatures, scorpions so too possess. Dragons may be powerful, fearsome, but the sting of one scorpion could mean immediate death. What might thousands do, if lions use this to their advantage?  _

 

_ The Mockingbird repeats what she has heard.   _


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A private meeting is requested.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, first off, warnings of very light, but consensual bondage in this chapter (I'll tag accordingly). Again, sorry, not with the advertised pairing but there's a thing in here for that too. Without giving too much away before reading I will explain now that my intentions were to showcase a woman taking power of a situation that might have otherwise not been that way. The world/society of Westeros is cruel to women and it would have been easy for that scene to go a different way, but as I feel the course of the story (outside of Vevynne's perspective) has shown plenty of that I decided to do something different, something a bit more empowering even if the sex is, to some extent, obligatory/expected. (That certainly isn't to say imply that Vevynne is 'stronger' or 'better' than the female characters who were taken advantage of, merely that the situation luckily worked to her benefit, depicted that way to, admittedly, avoid the alternative and to do something different with what could've been really awful) Hopefully that makes sense. Also another beloved friend emerges here and I'd like to say that I THOROUGHLY enjoyed having him pop up.

She awoke with a start in the middle of the night, quite inexplicably. There was no sound to rouse her, no one present that she could see shaking her awake, only the stillness of the night outside her window and the persistent chill that had begun to fill the wind. She chose to blame her stirring on the draft and rose, put on her robe, and crossed the room to close the window. She would open it again in the morning for Secret’s sake, though it was unlikely she’d be back so soon. 

 

In doing this she had the feeling of someone’s eyes on her back, though she had been certain no one else was present. Even still, she turned around and scanned the shadows of the room with no small amount of fear. If anyone knew, if someone within had discovered her secret, they’d have  _ every  _ reason to kill her. She would have no method of defense. 

 

Well...perhaps she wasn’t  _ completely _ without. She grabbed the small, but sharp letter opener from the desk drawer and crossed the room with baited breath. It wasn’t an impressive weapon, but if faced with an assassin it could put an eye out. She remembered too Sandor’s lesson on the position of the heart, decided she might have a good chance of piercing that as well if need be. 

 

“Is someone there?” she called out, raising the opener beside her head in warning. “I do have to point out...poison would’ve a far better method. I won’t go down without a fight.” 

 

A figure began to almost take shape in the darkness, as if materializing at her voice. It was large, towering over her- a man, it seemed to be. Her eyes went wide as her heart hammered fast in her chest. 

 

“I’m certain, as an assassin you must be-....you  _ must  _ be rather fond of your eyesight. I would hate to have you deprived in the effort of killing one woman.” 

 

The figure began to move towards her, causing her to backup in instinct, trip over the hem of her gown and robe and fall to the stone floor. 

 

“Or perhaps your  _ balls _ , then?” she challenged, her anger increasing with her panic. “Which would you more lament being rid of? Surely I am not worth all that…!” 

 

The figure was undeterred by her threats, advancing ever closer. She crawled back, scrambling for purchase against the stones. 

 

“Please…!” she begged, desperate now. “I can pay you-...! I have influence,  _ please _ …!” 

 

The figure made a final step forward into the light of the moon that poured in through the window panes. Where she had expected to see an assassin’s mask or some such thing, there was none, and it took her a moment to process whether or not she was  _ actually _ seeing the person before her. 

“.... _ Sandor _ …?” 

 

It was him, indisputably. The same scars, the same sad eyes. She thought her heart might leap from her chest. 

 

“Put down the knife, woman,” he ordered, though his tone was soft. “Somehow I think  _ you _ might regret the loss of my balls as much me.” 

 

He gathered her in his arms, lifted her from the ground and she thought she might die from the overwhelming happiness this instilled in her. Explanations of how or why he was here didn’t matter to her in the least; she instead wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his neck. 

 

“I thought I’d never see you again,” she weeped, though they were tears of mirth and relief. “I thought you were lost to me.” 

 

He laid her gently back down on the bed and she continued to cling to him as if he might disappear otherwise. He sat down beside her, exhaled a solemn breath while drawing a hand down her side. 

 

“I’m here now,” he said and she supposed it was all that really mattered in the end. 

 

“Yes,” she agreed, caressing his cheek. He leaned into her touch, kissed the pads of her fingers and the lines in her palm. “You are here now. And so am I. But...you shouldn’t be, my love. Cersei, the Mountain-…!”

 

“I am here  _ now _ .” 

 

He silenced her concerns with a lingering kiss, then a whisper into her ear, “Make love to me. Let the world fall away around us.”   

 

She could think of doing nothing else with him here, with his breath against her. Fuck Cersei, fuck the Mountain. She was tired of living under the thumb of their threats and practicalities be damned, he was  _ here _ and she had desired no one else for what felt like a lifetime. 

 

She pulled him on top of her, clothes were pulled at and undone in clumsy desperation, in between heated kisses and labored breathing. 

 

And then she woke up. 

 

* * *

  
  


Though it had been the first time she’d ‘seen’ Sandor in what felt like an eternity, the dream still disturbed her. Her mother, though somewhat superstitious, believed that the dead sometimes visited loved ones in dreams. She couldn’t bear to think that he was gone, that what she had done back in the Vale was all for naught in the end. She couldn’t bear to know she had lost someone else, but then, she supposed, it didn’t matter. He had been lost long ago. She would never see him again in the flesh, be he dead or alive. 

 

But she did  _ hope _ he was alive. Alive and content,  _ somehow _ . 

 

She would allow the dream to be her comfort as Euron returned to the Red Keep, trailing something behind him along with the cheers of King’s Landing. Her heart was caught in her throat, hoping against all reason that her information had made  _ some _ kind of difference. She knew it wasn’t all up to her, Dragonstone had to be on lookout for its allies and do with the power of that knowledge what they would and could, but guilt and helplessness nonetheless flooded her as Euron rode his horse victoriously into the Keep. 

 

He threw down Ellaria Sand and one of her daughters as if they were cattle to the slaughter (they were, for all intents and purposes), presented them as a gift of justice. Cersei’s eyes flared with what could only be described as hunger, but she was not entirely sated. 

 

“I imagine it must have required the destruction of an entire fleet to capture these prisoners,” she bated, the knowledge clear in her tone of voice that she suspected he hadn’t. Euron had a way of framing his defeats differently, however. 

 

“It  _ didn’t _ , as a matter of fact. They couldn’t put up much a fight. I plucked them as easily as a fox thieves an egg from a nest.” 

 

Still, as ever, so proud of himself. Cersei wasn’t buying his bravado. 

 

“I can rest assured, then, that the defecting Iron Fleet remains? Your niece and nephew, allies of the Dragon Queen, still sail unharmed?” 

 

That seem to damped his spirits some, but he continued arguing his point. “I wouldn’t say  _ unharmed _ . They fled back to Dragonstone, dicks tucked between their legs.” 

 

Cersei was unimpressed and answered this vague defense with silence, which managed to irritate him further. 

 

“There was a dragon at our backs!” he laughed in frustration. “She must have known. I haven’t the foggiest clue how, but she did. We  _ dealt _ a blow. I present you with our spoils.” 

 

Vevynne let out a private breath of relief...and victory. There was a sense of a secret power here now that she never knew she might possess. It wasn’t to be long lived, however. 

“Despite these setbacks,” Cersei relented finally. “You have proven yourself a formidable captain and true friend to the Crown. You deserve a proper reward for your heroism.” 

 

Eyes were on her then, though she saw only those of Cersei and Euron, looking her over as one does a prize pony. 

 

“I am therefore pleased to announce my approval of the betrothal of Euron Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands, to my dearest cousin and only heir, Lady Vevynne Lannister.” 

 

Though she addressed the throng, she looked squarely at Vevynne as she made this declaration, communicating in her gaze the reminder that she  _ belonged _ to the Queen. Euron’s eyes spoke of many other things, matters she would have to deal with at another time. In this moment, the power she had felt was gone. 

  
  


* * *

 

That feeling of defeat persisted as Highgarden was sacked, her warning, perhaps, having not been quick enough to give Dragonstone time to turn their forces around. She hoped that her efforts and the accuracy of her accounting, at least, would earn her some of the Dragon Queen’s favor; the fact that she’d been able to burn the Lannister’s stolen spoils (and almost Jaime with them) was some ray of hope, however small. Cersei was more frightened and frustrated than ever; according to her  _ birds _ Jaime campaigned harder for a way out of the war. Cersei still pushed back, talking of mercenaries and any other desperate option she had. 

 

Vevynne shared Jaime’s sentiment, of course. In an ideal world there might have been a way to avoid war entirely, but he had to know (no one better) that Cersei wasn’t going to abandon the Throne without one. Sides had to be chosen and she had made her decision. 

 

Uncertain of how her brief connection with Dragonstone would fare in light of the successes and defeats, she was especially pleased to garner another letter from Secret one evening. 

 

_ The dragons are grateful to the Mockingbird for her insight into the monsters that try to thwart them. The Iron Krakens escaped with limited injury and some snakes have found their way home. The garden was left trampled, but the spoils have been dealt a blow, as have a few that would not bend. The Spider now asks a true test of the Mockingbird and her tenacity. A small familiar source seeks a meeting with the Golden Lion. If the Mockingbird should arrange this successfully she will prove herself a true friend.  _

 

She had to sit a moment and study the words a few times to be certain she understood what was asked of her. It was encouraging that Dragonstone would see fit to entrust her with such a task- intimidating, all the same, as it carried a high degree of risk for everyone involved. Even so, she knew laboring over the particulars was meaningless as she had moved too far into this covert alliance to refuse. 

 

She moved to write back a letter of consent to the plan and request for further details when her door flew open. On instinct she scrambled to put away her work before she bothered looking to see who it was that barged in without a knock (as if she couldn’t  _ guess _ ).  __

 

“What’s all this?” That same irritatingly smug tone of voice. “Writing filthy love letters to me, perhaps? No need. I’d rather hear it from your mouth.”

 

“A gentleman would  _ knock _ at a lady’s door,” she helpfully pointed out, slamming the drawer closed. 

 

Euron laughed at this, mocking. “What gave you the impression I was a gentleman?” 

 

“None, of course. But you are effectively betrothed to the Queen’s heir now. Does that not call for some amount of gentility?” 

 

She already knew the answer, but he provided one when he lifted her out her chair with a hand at the small of her back, pressed her to him. She leaned back some when he was practically breathing on her, salivating as one would over an enticing cut of meat.

 

“Which effectively means I’m going to be King. Which  _ effectively _ means I can do as I please.”   

 

He began mouthing at her neck then and she grimaced and wished to pull away but knew, for the sake of her efforts, that she’d have to play along to some degree as she had before. Euron had one redeeming quality if nothing else and that was taking pleasure in her assertiveness. She couldn’t have done this if she wasn’t able to keep some kind of upperhand. 

 

“You’re far from that now,” she argued, wanting to add ‘ _ and you never will be, just as I am not a true heir’ _ . 

 

She  _ did _ manage to push him off of her, step back so she could shuck off her robe at her own leisure. 

 

“I  _ did _ promise you could have what you wanted when you proved yourself. Get on the bed.”

 

Another mocking grin, but he did as he was told. He disgusted her in every sense of the word, in every aspect about him, but her now reoccurring dreams of Sandor had left her in need of  _ something _ just as he had left her aching in the Keep foyer eons ago. She also found that the more Euron frustrated her the more she wanted to enact some kind of dominance over him and this was the only avenue that she felt would satisfy all the angles she worked towards. 

 

When he was properly seated she grabbed rope from a drawer, seized his wrists and tied him securely to her bed posts. This only seemed to further his arousal and delight, which worked to her advantage for as much as she hadn’t done it for his benefit. She didn’t want him touching her. 

 

“You’re a sick bitch, aren’t you?” he marveled with a cackle. “I like it.” 

 

“I don’t  _ care _ what you like,” she replied without skipping a beat, the honest truth, as she straddled his lap.  

 

He leaned up towards her, challenging. “Unfortunate for you, then, that we seem to have similar tastes.” 

 

She told him to shut up as she pulled free the laces of his trousers. 

* * *

  
  


She had to wash herself from tip to toe after her night with Euron. It hadn’t been quite the satisfying power play she had hoped for, as while she had successfully gotten her release from him it was...without. The nagging feeling that she had betrayed the one she loved played insistent on her guilt, even as she knew she’d never see him again, even as she knew it had been necessary on more fronts than one. Beyond all this he was still grotesque and she somehow detested him even more, maybe especially for his crude comment afterwards about ‘putting a prince in her belly’ while caressing that aforementioned body part. The idea of bearing  _ his _ children made her sick. Unbeknownst to him, however, she had gone forward with her plan of sex only because it fell on an advantageous week in her feminine cycle, one in which impregnation was a near impossibility. 

 

Not good enough, but it would have to do. She’d just have to be careful going forward. 

 

It wasn’t  _ all _ she’d have to take care with, however, as the meeting with Dragonstone had been arranged and the day had arrived for her to move the chess pieces into place. She had to believe she could manage it.

 

The rendezvous point was within a tunnel that Tyrion had used himself many times during his days as a proper Lannister, one she was grateful for having discovered in the event it might aid her own efforts. 

 

She found him there as reported he would be, though he was identifiable only by his height. 

 

“You’ve changed, cousin,” she greeted. 

 

He surveyed her with some amount of surprise that it actually  _ was _ her meeting with him now. She had to believe he guessed her identity early on, but perhaps there was some degree of needing to see the evidence with his own eyes. He smiled at her nonetheless, though it was weak. The face of a man who’d seen too much. 

 

“I could say the same of you. I’m ashamed to admit it, but if I’d been asked years ago if I thought you capable of such things, I would’ve-” 

 

“Yes, I understand. But my unassuming nature works to my advantage, don’t you think?” 

 

He huffed out a laugh. “I suppose it does. In any case, I commend you. There is no small amount of danger in what you’re doing.” 

 

Her smile fell. “There is no small amount of danger in being a  _ true _ ally to Cersei either. Perhaps I’m ‘fucked’ either way.” 

 

Tyrion’s eyes cast themselves downward, in doubt, in seemed. “Perhaps we all are.” 

 

She propped her torch on a nearby hold and sat herself down against a wayward crate that sat near them. Tyrion seemed a bit uncertain of this, rushed as he no doubt was to move the meeting along and get back to Dragonstone before any of this could be detected by third parties, but Vevynne was the orchestrator and would have her questions answered before continuing. 

 

“I didn’t initially write to Dragonstone. I wrote to  _ you _ , the one bit of family I have left that I feel I can trust. I know very little of Daenerys Targaryen beyond the fearsome...though admittedly  _ impressive _ descriptions repeated in the Keep. I need to know why you’ve chosen her.” 

 

“Is this an ultimatum?” he asked, incredulous.  

 

“Yes, a bit.” 

 

Though, arguably, they were both in too deep of a mire now for either to turn back and shuck it all away if he could not convince her. Nevertheless, he indulged. 

 

“She yearns for a better world. She yearns to break the wheel. This is what  _ all _ of her efforts have gone into. She is the change that we need and she has the power to achieve it.” 

 

Vevynne mused a bit on this, growing more enamored of Daenerys as the days went by. She still didn’t know if it was advisable or wise at the heart of things, but how could she not be? A Queen that vied to break the changes of all those kept against their will...it seemed like something out of a dream. 

 

“I would very much like to meet her,” she said aloud to no one in particular. 

 

As if sensing the cloud of idealism and ardor Vevynne had begun to drift away on, Tyrion was quick to pull her back to reality. 

 

“You have chosen wisely, of that I can assure you. My Queen is benevolent, but to her enemies, she is merciless. She  _ will _ win this war and I do not envy those who try to stand in her way.” 

 

His effort was successful. 

 

“I was told she felled some soldiers in the Reach that did not bend the knee.” 

 

“She gave them every chance,” Tyrion defended. “And...it was only two. Two too many, perhaps, even so…” 

 

Her curiosity got the better of her and she asked, “Who? Did you know their names?” 

 

“The Tarlys. Randyll and his heir, Dickon.” 

 

She inhaled a sharp breath, trying to contain her sudden shock, but tears had already begun to press at her eyes. Tyrion noticed this, even as she tried to obscure her face. 

 

“You...knew them well?” 

 

“I was betrothed to Dickon for a time,” she explained, shaking her head. “ _ Stupid _ boy. Stupid, noble boy.” 

 

Tyrion looked ashamed and opened his mouth a few times as if he wanted to offer condolences, but decided against it in the end. Perhaps he felt he was in no position to give them. In lieu of this, he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. 

 

“I felt...there were other, more merciful alternatives that might have had a similar impact, but my Queen is-”

 

“No,” she said, laying a hand over his. “It’s alright. Dickon was a sweet fool. I don’t suspect he would have been long for this world with war on the horizon. It was, perhaps, a mercy.” 

 

Tyrion didn’t seem sure of that, but she wouldn’t ask him  _ how _ they died. Dragon fire, she suspected. The pain would have been short lived compared to one sustained on a battlefield. 

 

“In truth,” Tyrion said after a time. “The sides of this particular war are becoming more and more irrelevant. Winter is swiftly approaching and we have a common enemy in what lies beyond the wall.” 

 

She looked to him in confusion, wondering what he could’ve been referring to.  _ Wildlings? _ She’d heard stories, of course, as a child, as all children in Westeros did, of the monsters that slept in wait for winter winds, of beasts that crept out when the long night set in, of things she thought only meant to scare them into behaving well and going to sleep. The things she feared today were not the things of storybooks and spooky nursemaids and she couldn’t imagine there would be a greater threat than the one she knew. 

 

“What, grumkins and snarks?” A smile played on her lips. “I believe  _ you _ might have told us one or two of those ghost stories growing up.” 

 

He smiled as well, though only in memory of happier times. “Yes, I believe I did.  _ That _ is the fiction. The Night King and his army of the undead are the  _ reality _ . Therein lies the entire purpose of this visit.” 

 

She enough of Tyrion to know when he was sincere and when he wasn’t and of  _ this _ he was very grave. 

 

“I shall have to make haste fetching Jaime then. A Night King doesn’t sound like the sort of person that bides his time.” 

 

She made to grab her torch and led him on to the rendezvous point, but he took her hand, momentarily halting her efforts. 

 

“I don’t believe any of us can thank you enough for this,” he said. “But I hope you will allow me to try.” 

 

She rubbed her thumb over his knuckles. There was a great comfort in having family nearby she could still safely hold affection for. 

 

“Thank Arya Stark. If not for her, I never would’ve attempted.” 


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dragons arrive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another long one, but I had a lot of ground to cover in this one, plot-wise. Also...the long awaited, proper return of a CERTAIN SOMEONE.

After having secured Tyrion beneath the Keep, which was easy enough, Vevynne set her sights on luring Jaime. This task would, perhaps, be the most difficult of all, as they had never been close, had never interacted much in the whole of her life and now he seemed to have his own suspicions about her. She figured she could work all of that and the assumptions made about her over the years to her advantage- it was her only option, anyway. 

 

“Cousin,” she greeted him pleasantly, having located and tucked her arm around his before he could say or do otherwise. “I hope you don’t mind terribly if I steal away some of your time. It troubles me that while I’ve become so very close to Cersei, you and I still seem to be...at odds.” 

 

She walked him with her in the direction of the basement. He was stiff, but he followed along nevertheless. Maybe out of curiosity to see if he could uncover her truths. He might do just that, before this was all said and done. 

 

“ _ Interesting _ . Your closeness with Cersei troubles me too.”

 

“May I ask why?” Feigning obliviousness. 

 

Jaime looked down at her. “She  _ killed _ your father and brother. The whole Kingdom knows that. And you ask me why it’s hard to believe you truly hold her best interests at heart?” 

 

Vevynne steeled herself to spin the best story, the best lie she had yet, even as it would tear at the fabric of her very being. And she had to tell it  _ believably _ , too.   

 

“My father saw me as little more than a broodmare and bargaining chip for the most viable House. My brother would have likely had me executed for the sin of loving a man outside the bonds of matrimony. Do I relish their deaths? No. Do I hold a great deal gratitude for the woman who released me from an impossible situation?  _ Yes _ . However... _ brutal _ her method, however much I loved and miss them, it was the only way.” 

 

She hated saying it, all of it. She hated herself for having done it, but it silenced Jaime enough to indicate that she’d made a good argument. 

 

“I’m...sorry for assumptions made in haste,” he said finally. “I want only to protect her.” 

 

“If you knew me better, you would not have to rely on  _ assumption _ of my motives,” she suggested, though she said it teasingly, amicably. “Which is why I propose we take this moment to get to know each other better. All these long years of having occupied the same House, shared the same blood, and I think this is the longest we’ve ever spoken to each other.” 

 

“I’ve never  _ disliked _ you,” Jaime assured. “I...suppose we just never had much in common. Besides that, you were at Casterly Rock most of your life-” 

 

“Precisely. We had nothing to talk about. Well,  _ now _ , I believe we do. I heard that the Scorpions were implemented in the battle at the Reach. Lord Qyburn showed me the first and, I admit, I was ever so intrigued. I believe it is still below the Keep. Could you show me how to use it? I’ve wanted to fire an arrow into Balerion’s skull ever since.” 

 

Jaime gave her a disbelieving smile but relented, agreeing to satisfy her gleeful curiosity. This was how she got him where she needed him to be, trying to keep up the facade as the moment of truth neared and her heart beat ever-faster.

 

“I never would’ve pinned you as having an interest in artillery,” he said, as they wove their way through the various dragon skulls. 

 

“Perhaps it is not so much the artillery as the promise of their destruction. Queen Daenerys had Dickon Tarly executed by one of her dragons for not betraying the Crown.” 

 

“I’m...very sorry,” Jaime consoled. “Rick-...Dickon seemed very loyal to his House, he-” 

 

Whatever thoughts Jaime had for Dickon died on his tongue as Tyrion stepped out, revealing himself from the shadows. A long, uncomfortable swath of silence blanketed them for a time until Vevynne managed a taken back, “....cousin Tyrion?” having conspired with him earlier to pretend she was ignorant of the whole thing so as to keep her game going. 

 

Jaime wasn’t sold, however. He rounded on her. “ _ What... _ is  _ he _ doing here?”

 

Vevynne stood like a deer caught with an arrow pointed at its head. “I-...I have no idea, my Lord, I didn’t-...!” 

 

“You lead me down here under the guise of wanting to play a game of target practice and he just  _ so happens _ to show up at the same time? How daft do you think I am?” 

 

“Jaime,” Tyrion interjected, though his tone was far from commanding. “She knew nothing of this. How could she? You know very well I can navigate myself in and out of the Keep without being seen.” 

 

“Your plan was to wait until I happened to show up down here? Yes, makes  _ perfect _ sense, as I so often frequent the dragon crypt.” 

 

Things were unraveling as it became apparent she had underestimated Jaime’s intelligence. Even if he hadn’t had a lot to begin with she  _ knew _ she should have thought this out better. 

 

“You should speak to Tyrion alone. I will explain myself later.” 

 

Jaime narrowed his eyes at her. “ _ Yes _ , you will.” 

 

* * *

 

She gave them the illusion of privacy to discuss terms, still listening outside the door to make sure that her clumsy method and in-the-moment excuse would not compromise Dragonstone’s efforts. Thankfully things seemed to go according to plan and Jaime agreed to do what he could to sway Cersei towards the discussion of an armistice. They could attribute that more to Jaime’s love of his brother than anything else, she supposed, but a success was a success. 

 

When Jaime returned from the meeting he seized her tight by the upper arm. 

 

“I didn’t ask Tyrion a thing,” he said, teeth clenched. “I wanted to hear the explanation in  _ your _ words. How did he get here?” He seized her arm tighter. “Have you been conspiring with Dragonstone?” 

 

“No, my Lord!” she cried out. “Not Dragonstone. Not specifically.” 

 

“ _ Who _ then? What have you been telling them?”

 

His voice had risen and she knew there would be bruises where he gripped her now. She worried the bone in her arm might break under the pressure. 

 

“ _ Please _ , cousin…!” The tears that filled her eyes were genuine, at least. She hadn’t realized his strength before. “I spoke only to Tyrion. I told him nothing. I reached out to him only because he  _ is _ my family and, despite everything, I love him. I love him as I love you, as I love Cersei. There are so few of us left, please…!” 

 

Something about her explanation softened him to a degree and he released his hold on her. She fell to her knees before him. 

 

“I told him nothing of our efforts, I swear to you,” she continued. “But when he spoke of The Night King, of an army of undead...Lord Jaime, please, you must realize. I had concern enough about our family’s wellbeing against three full grown dragons. I had grown fearful and desperate. I want only to protect that which means the most to me. I have lost my father and brothers, I did not wish to lose more. I knew Cersei would only listen to you, that you would only listen to Tyrion...please. _ Please _ try to understand…”  

 

Her tears hit the stone beneath them and, for a time, he said nothing. Eventually she felt his hand on her again, though this time it was far gentler than before. 

 

“It’s alright,” he coaxed, shame evident in his voice as he helped her to her feet. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way. Please don’t cry.” 

 

He handed her a handkerchief and, for a moment, she felt guilty about all of it. She didn’t relish lying to him. 

 

“I understand your motives,” he assured as she dried her eyes. “They were honorable...but you mustn’t communicate with him beyond this point. There is too much at stake. He may be our family by blood, but he is on the side of the woman that would render what remains of us, and King’s Landing, to ash. Even with the best of intentions information can slip, fall into the wrong hands. You understand, I hope.” 

 

He spoke to her as one would a child and though that was, in many ways, patronizing and irritating it was also exactly what she needed right now. Far better than he fall back on the assumption that she was as foolish as that. She nodded in agreement. 

 

“I understand, my Lord.” 

 

He put an arm around her in attempt to comfort and led her back to the upper level of the Keep. 

* * *

  
  
  


Though she might have had Jaime fooled with this cover, Cersei was an entirely different story. The good news was that Jaime had managed to talk Cersei into consenting to a meeting with the various involved factions, but the unfortunate part of the whole thing was his mention of Vevynne’s involvement in assumption that the Queen would find her just as naive and well meaning as he had. She didn’t. 

 

Vevynne apparently had no idea just how much of a prison Cersei might create for her. Having gleaned now that her younger cousin was not as innocent as she masqueraded, having suspected that her motives were much more sinister, Cersei ordered that she be surrounded by servants night and day so that she could not move, speak, think or eat without it being heard and seen. Vevynne was assured she was being kept in place for Euron bait/deterrent only and that (as she had always known) she was never any true heir.  _ That _ eventual person now rested, growing, in Cersei’s womb. The decision of what to do with her would be made when the war was won and the dust had settled. 

 

Without the promise of Dragonstone arriving at King’s Landing these efforts would have been devastating. She would have punished herself for not being more clever, more covert, before making an attempt to escape on her own. Better to die in attempt for freedom than in wait for it like a prisoner in a cell. Perhaps Cersei would keep her around instead, decide a much more fitting punishment would be having to spend the rest of her days tied to Euron Greyjoy. Even though the end of the world was quite possibly upon them it was still a disheartening prospect. Her only hope now was that the dragons would see fit to free her. 

 

The day of the Dragon Pit meeting arrived, thick with as much dread and anticipation as the day of her trial had been. Having very little left to lose now though made it all that much more palatable. Her hair was braided up and pulled back into a low bun, she was clothed in a black and silver gown to match her Queen and the ongoing impression of mourning that House Lannister had been under for what felt like eons (silver, to suggest armor against their enemies). Finally, a simple circlet with the Lannister sigil fixed to the front was placed on her head-  _ that _ was to continue to illusion of her being a true heir. 

 

They arrived later than the rest by intention, she being bid to keep an arm linked with Euron in solidarity of their engagement. This was how they were marched out, Cersei’s personal guard (Gregor Clegane included) flanking them at all sides. She couldn’t have run even if she had planned to. 

 

The intention was to keep her eyes on the dusty earth beneath them, but as they proceeded into the Pit she found temptation too great to refrain from eying everyone present, people she had heard tell of in covert letters and second-hand stories. Seeing them all standing here now was if being in the presence of physical legends. Her eyes specifically searched for the silver-haired Daenerys. 

 

She saw instead the familiar sad eyes that all at once tugged at her heart and the very fabric of her being. 

 

It was the same as seeing him in her dreams- that overwhelming disbelief, that rush of joy, that almost impossible-to-stifle need to run to him immediately. She couldn’t say how she contained herself in the moment. What force kept her pinned where she needed to be when her love stood but a few feet away? 

 

He looked different now, more care worn, whatever barrier that had always stood between him and his vulnerability was stripped away, gone. His beard was full, rather than the coarse stubble on his cheeks she had come to know well. His eyes had met with hers too and they regarded each other for some time in awe of everything. It was the only true physical connection she’d had with him in forever and she could only relish it for what it was, however small. 

 

She broke it only when she felt Euron’s eyes on her and her gaze returned to the dirt. 

 

“That him?” he whispered to her, a bit closer to her ear than what she would’ve liked. “The Dog?” 

 

She said nothing, but it was confirmation enough for his sake. He chuckled in derision under his breath and, with the intention only of taunting the other man, she was sure, he chanced a nuzzle to her hair, the shell of her ear as he said, “Explains a lot about you, doesn’t it.” 

 

The court took their seats, she in the seat at the end of the line up beside her betrothed, and now found she could look at no one. There was too much shame in it all, in being where she was, in aligning with whom she was aligned with, in her utter failures. These were  _ all _ people of great power and strength, what right did she have to take up space among them? 

 

However, it didn’t cause her to miss Sandor’s heavy footfalls as he approached the court. Her heart beat faster in her chest. Perhaps she hoped he would come for her, take her in his arms as he had in her dreams, take her away from all of this. Instead he addressed his brother and paid her no mind. 

 

“You know who’s coming for you,” he said to Gregor. “You’ve always known.” 

 

He turned to leave then and, unsure if he would return, if this would be the last she’d ever see of him, she wanted to cry out. In all of this she had missed Cersei’s intuitive gaze on her. 

 

“Hound,” Cersei called out to him, bidding him to stop in his tracks. “Forgive me. Perhaps you aren’t that anymore.  _ Sandor Clegane _ . It’s been quite awhile since we’ve last seen you. The night you cursed my son and stole away with my beloved Vevynne feels like a lifetime ago, does it not?” 

 

She spoke as if they were friends merely catching up on lost time. Everyone present seemed to know better, including Sandor, who looked to her but did not speak. This was no deterrent for Cersei. 

 

“Perhaps you’ve heard,” she continued. “Lady Vevynne has done rather well for herself since. I have named her my heir. She is happily betrothed to Lord Euron Greyjoy of the Iron Islands.” 

 

Sandor grit his jaw. “I’m not interested in the goings on of your court politics.  _ Your Grace _ .”  

 

He all but spat the obligatory title. Cersei just shrugged and grinned. 

 

“Of course...but it was not of politics that I spoke, rather the well-being of my cousin. I assumed, given your former  _ closeness _ , you might relish in knowing how well she has thrived, now that she is back here where she  _ belongs _ .” 

 

Vevynne wanted nothing more than to wrench Cersei’s head from her shoulders. Instead she stayed seated, forcing herself to confront the reality of what she had done. 

 

“Your cousin is of no consequence to me,” Sandor said finally. With that, he was gone down the stairs. 

 

Cersei looked to her in satisfied victory and Vevynne did her best to stare straight ahead, to swallow the tears that threatened to pour down her cheeks. She knew it was due. It didn’t lessen the pain. 

 

Euron placed a hand on her knee, his mouth back against her ear. “ _ That _ must hurt,” he said, delighting in the possibility. “Never you mind, my  _ love _ . When we have won you can watch me kill him. Slow and merciless. His head as a wedding gift, what could be better?” 

 

She wanted to be enraged. She wanted to destroy every inch of the Pit and everyone in it without a second thought, but the defeat in her situation had gotten the better of her. She was alone now, utterly.  _ Trapped _ . It became hard to breathe. 

 

It was in the darkest moment of her despair, in the most solemn plans she had made for herself yet (there were ways of escape, methods of being with Martyn and Willem again, she knew) that a mighty roar from the sky tore through. It grew ever closer, accompanied by the pounding of wings that sounded akin to the Dothraki drum beats. Everyone stood to see.  _ She _ stood. 

 

There in the sky, against all possibility and reason, were two of the most fearsome, most majestic beasts she’d ever laid eyes on.  _ Dragons _ . Alive in the world again! Her heart swelled. She wept now for different reasons entirely. 

 

The darkest of the two landed atop the ruins of the coliseum seating, crushing the weak stones in the grip of its claws. It let out another bellowing roar that shook the ground they stood on, as if to announce the arrival of another Queen. That was the first time Vevynne laid eyes on Daenerys Targaryen- a woman of her age, hair a cascade of iced silver, her eyes and countenance spoke of unadulterated power and confidence. Mother of Dragons.  _ Breaker of Chains _ .  

 

Vevynne thought her the most beautiful woman she’d ever laid eyes on. A goddess. There couldn’t have been a more effective balm on her broken heart than the sight of the Dragon Queen. 

 

The dragon departed after its Queen had dismounted, leaving behind a veritable dust storm with the beating of its wings. She joined them enreathed by this cloud of sand. The only thing that made the moment that much more of a joy was the utter contempt in Cersei’s eyes. 

 

“We’ve been here for some time,” Cersei all but hissed after Daenerys had taken her seat beside Tyrion. Where everyone else (herself included) crumbled and wilted at the smallest sign of her impatience, Daenerys did not bend. She did not even seem to care. 

 

“My apologies,” she said with the faintest smile. Cersei seemed ready to kill. Vevynne could not stifle a private, satisfied grin of her own. It seemed almost an answer to her own public shame that had played out before them moments before, a cruel twist of fate, every bit of which Cersei deserved. 

 

Another beat of awkward silence fell over them before Tyrion made to begin the meeting. 

 

“We are all facing a unique-” 

 

“ _ Theon! Yara! _ ” 

 

It was her horrible betrothed, bleating out like a goat in the middle of matters so much bigger than him (as most were). She supposed it should come as no surprise, but it didn’t stop her absolute mortification-  _ especially _ now that Daenerys was here. Vevynne placed a hand on his arm and squeezed tight. 

 

“My love, perhaps now is not the most  _ appropriate _ time-” 

 

He ignored her. 

 

“I’m curious what your tactic will be when next we meet on the seas. Do you plan to hide behind dragonfire again? Piss your pants and run away?”

 

She wanted nothing more than for the earth to swallow her whole right then and there. Tyrion attempted to silence him. 

 

“I think we ought to begin with larger concerns-” 

 

“Then why are  _ you _ talking? You’re the smallest concern here.” 

 

She spun on him, wishing she had the power to kill him with her gaze alone. Wishing the dragon would return and eat him whole. 

 

“You will not  _ speak _ of my cousin-” she growled out in a terse whisper, practically yanking at him when he stood to lord himself over Tyrion. It did no good, he shook her off without much issue. 

 

“Do you remember when we discussed dwarf jokes?” Tyrion relayed to Theon, who scoffed, “His wasn’t even  _ good _ .” 

 

“He explained it at the end. Never explain it, it always ruins it.” 

 

Euron didn’t seem to care, didn’t seem to realize what an utter idiot he was making of himself in front of everyone. 

 

“We don’t even let your kind live in the Iron Islands, you know?” he taunted. “We kill you at birth. An act of mercy for the parents.” 

 

She could take no more of it, standing up as Jaime barked out the very firm suggestion that he sit back down. 

 

“My love, you’ve left me alone,” she called out, her voice broken with the attempt to play the deprived woman under the stress of every emotion she’d been through in the past hour. “It’s as you say, he is the smallest concern here and surely not worth  _ your _ time and efforts. Please.  _ Darling _ . Come back to me.” 

 

This seemed enough of a play to his ego to coax him back where he needed to be (that, and Cersei motioning for Gregor to step out beside her in warning), huffing out one last derisive chuckle as he explained, “Alas, my lady calls me.” 

 

She hated speaking of Tyrion that way, but he nodded to her in understanding and she reciprocated. It was only bearable in knowing that  _ he _ knew. 

 

The gathering continued then undeterred, Tyrion and Jon taking turns alluding to the common threat in the North. Cersei wasn’t convinced, accusing them of spinning a story in attempt to leave her vulnerable. Of course, that had been the purpose of them all meeting in one place. Evidence had to be brought forth. 

 

Sandor returned then, carrying a large crate on his back that even he seemed to struggle to hold up. She tried not to look at him though- not in anger, she didn’t resent him for feeling the way he did, but rather because she didn’t wish to be any more of a bother or distraction. She didn’t feel herself entitled to longing looks. 

 

Besides that it was the crate that was of interest, wherein seemed to lie the truth of their situation. The side of Cersei, for the most part, seemed to doubt there was anything that would change their position, but Vevynne was almost too frightened to sit still and wait for whatever kept in that box to be revealed. She didn’t have a choice though, of course. 

 

This trepidation increased as the lid was lifted off and Sandor regarded whatever was in there with  _ real _ hesitation, the kind that she’d seen in him around fire, when Arya made her threats. It took something major to frighten him like this, that much she knew. She gripped the edges of her seat. 

 

The box was kicked over and what poured out of it was nothing any of them could’ve imagined, nothing the worst nightmare she’d ever had could hold a candle against. Decaying flesh. Bone. an inhuman screeching. Eyes of blue flame, lipless jaws gnashing, running, clawing at Cersei. For better or worse Sandor pulled the creature back before it could reach her. It then went charging for him and he sliced it in half. Surely that would be the end of it…?

Far from it. As its upper torso crawled, rotted intestines trailing out behind, she could see properly that it was a corpse- still moving, undeterred. The Army of  _ Undead _ . She paid little attention as Jon Snow demonstrated how the thing could be killed, her eyes unable to tear themselves away from the corpse as it meandered around the floor of the pit. Nothing he said hit her until, “If we don’t win this fight, then  _ that _ is the fate of every person in the world.” 

 

Generations, years of House politics and wars that had seemed so important for so long. None of it mattered. No titles, no Kings, no gold, no power could do anything against the existence of what laid before them. 

 

“There is only one war that matters,” Jon said. “The Great War. And it is here.” 

 

Daenerys then mentioned the presence of at least a hundred thousand of these things, all of them marching closer by the day. Vevynne wanted to cry out in wonder that any of them still sat here debating, pretending as if their personal vendettas and House grudges meant anything any more, but personal restraint aside, she found she had no voice to speak with. 

 

Euron stood then, went to inspect the now dragon-glassed corpse for himself. After learning that they could not swim he made his expected announcement that he’d be taking his Iron Fleet back home. 

 

“I’ve been around the world,” he said to Cersei. “I’ve seen everything, things you couldn’t imagine and this...this is the only thing I’ve ever seen that terrifies me.” 

 

Then he sauntered over to her, rather unexpectedly, took her chin in his hand and made her look up at him with raw eyes. 

 

“I’m going back to my island,” Despite everything, the smirk was still there. “You could come with me, pet. This doesn’t have to be the end of us.” 

 

“I’d rather die.” She said it with defeat rather than anger, though she felt a great deal of both. It was honest, probably on more fronts than one. 

 

He laughed. “You  _ will _ .” 

 

And then he made his leave as she hoped, more than anything, it’d be the last she’d ever see of him. 

 

Feeling another’s eyes on her, not unlike she had in her dreams, she chanced a glance in the intuitive direction. Sandor quickly looked away from her, ahead to nothing in particular. 

* * *

  
  


The gathering hadn’t gone as hoped. When Jon Snow refused to Cersei’s offer of a Northern armistice she dismissed the throng and left, leaving Vevynne no choice but to trail behind her. It took everything in her to leave the dragons behind, wondering if it would not be out of place to simply walk to their side. She was of no use to them in the Keep any longer and with Euron gone (it seemed) she was of no immediate use to Cersei either. 

 

Perhaps they did not want her, she thought. She was useful when she held the position of relaying information and messages, but now she was little more than just another mouth to feed. She didn’t feel any resentment towards them for this. How could she? It was a simple matter of logistics. 

 

Still, the whole thing left her feeling more adrift than she ever had before. She had no place in the Keep, she seemed to no longer have a place with Sandor. While her girlish hopes had aspired towards being able to pledge herself to Daenerys that appeared to be a dead end as well. The only bit of a family that loved her was her mother and House Swyft that lay not too far from Casterly Rock. She supposed if she could manage a route out of the Keep she could work her way to Cornfield. Her mother would take her in, even if Uncle Steffon had his objections. 

 

It was as good a plan as any, so she began assembling her very last mental puzzle of how to accomplish another escape from the Keep and King’s Landing without her ever present handmaidens taking any notice. It was during this rumination that a knock came at her door. 

 

She was shocked, wondering why anyone would spare their time to visit her now. Her answer came in the form of cousin Tyrion being permitted entry. 

 

“She’s leaving,” he said without pause to her entourage. “Have her things packed as quickly as possible.” 

 

Vevynne rose from where she sat at her desk, too far gone in surprise to manage a question of just what was going on. Tyrion seemed to catch on. 

 

“The dragons alluded to freeing you from your gilded cage if you proved to be a true friend, didn’t they?” He threw up his hands in concession. “Well, here we are. It was especially important to me, being that I, personally, am under a rather pesky expectation to always pay my debts.”  

 

She shook her head, though a grin was impossible to hide. “I don’t know that Cersei would allow it-” 

 

“She will. She has. It would seem you have become...oh, what how did she put it…?  _ More trouble than you are worth _ . She seemed to hold eventual plans of execution for treason but assumes the threat in the North will kill you all the same.”

 

To this he offered a wan, sympathetic smile, but she didn’t care about Cersei’s threats in the least. 

 

“You’re taking me with you to Dragonstone?” she gushed. “With Queen Daenerys?” 

 

“If you’ll have us, yes.” 

 

She bent down and threw her arms around him, almost making him topple over with the force of her joy. 

 

“Cousin…! My dearest cousin!” she pressed a kiss to his cheek. “You don’t know what this means to me.” 

 

“I  _ think _ I’m beginning to get an idea.”  

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mockingbird flies with dragons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a shorter, sweet chapter this time around to break things up and bridge gaps, etc. I debated holding off on what happens at the end of this chapter until later but the characters and story seemed to command me to do it, SO, it is what it is! Can only keep them apart so long, I suppose lol.

The small journey from Keep to Ship was done rather in haste by both she and Tyrion, as if both of them feared minds might change if they didn’t move quickly. In all honesty, she wasn’t sure he had cleared this decision with the Queen whose opinion mattered the most, that being the one who would house her at Dragonstone. The promise of freedom  _ had _ been made, of course, but that had been via communication with Varys and Tyrion, respectively. Whether or not any mention of this had passed Daenerys’ approval remained unknown and something of an anxiety. 

 

Still, she didn’t let it hinder her from following Tyrion on board the Targaryen vessel and sailing alongside the rest of them. She was introduced to the primary followers on board; Theon and Yara, Jorah Mormont, Missandei, Jon Snow, Davos and, of course, Varys. Being that she was a Lannister in long time service of Cersei they were all understandably skeptical of her (even with Tyrion’s divulgence that she had been their leak from within the Keep) with the exception of the last. 

 

She had keeping something of a distance from most of them, uncertain if trying to cozy up and win their favor was a better alternative to staying out of their way. They seemed to prefer the latter, mind their business and she did hers- all but Lord Varys who approached her as she stood on deck, watching the waves churn beneath them. 

 

“Mockingbird,” he greeted, to which she smiled and nodded back. 

 

“A bird among lions, a spider among dragons.” 

 

“Ah, but you are not that anymore, are you? You fly with them now. Is it what you hoped?” 

 

“It has been a dream so far,” she replied honestly. “Granted, I have yet to step foot on Dragonstone...and I have no idea how her Grace will receive me.” 

 

Varys didn’t seem concerned in the slightest. “If you continue to use your wit and charm as well as you have been, she will receive you however you’d like. That’s not to mention the fact she was as grateful as any of us for your aid.” 

 

“I want her to approve of me. Of me as I am. I don’t relish using manipulation, Lord Varys, it was a weapon I had to wield at the lack of any other options.” 

 

“That is all it is for any of us,” he corrected. “In this world, in these times, there is no other option. One must pick up arms if one intends to survive. Those of us who are not adept with steel find other methods.” 

 

She knew there was an unavoidable truth in what he said. Even so. 

 

“I don’t intend to use any weapon against Her Grace. I revere her in my heart. I will come to her with my soul bared and I will speak only my truths.” 

 

She heard him chuckle under his breath. “You may do so at your own peril. Do not be fooled by Tyrion’s reception, she is not overly fond of House Lannister.” 

 

“I am Swyft, too, Lord Varys. Surely we  _ cocks _ have done nothing against House Targaryen?” 

 

“Oh, I wouldn’t know, my dear.” 

 

They shared an amicable laugh at that and then he stepped back, making to leave. 

 

“If you ever have a change of heart about the weapon you wield,” he said, just before walking away. “Do let me know. You show a great deal of promise. There will always be a place for stories and secrets in the courts of Westeros.” 

 

“Provided there _ is _ a Westeros when all is said and done,” she amended. “Unless his Grace the Night King has some use for a Master of Whispers.” 

 

“One really should  _ never _ limit their options.” 

* * *

  
  


Dragonstone was cloaked in a heavy mist when they arrived. She fancied that it was floating within a cloud, the sky as their sea, up above all where the dragons circled. She could see how it would be an intimidating, solemn sight to most, grey as the day was, but to her it meant freedom.  _ Finally. _ True freedom. No longer on the run, no longer hiding from the House that saw her as little more than an object to be sold to the highest bidder. She had made her choice and here she was. 

 

Tyrion prepared her for the fact that she would meet Her Grace properly once she had disembarked. He coached her on what to say, warned her that she would be expected to bend the knee and pledge her loyalty, that despite her help Daenerys would still have her suspicions and it was Vevynne’s goal to dispel these. Though she already knew how she would speak, what she would do and say, she knew her cousin had been kind enough to go out on this generous limb for her, so she did not interrupt his efforts. 

 

She followed the group of them up the seemingly endless, winding route of stairs to the entrance of the castle. Every now and then a dragon would swoop out from the dense fog and skim over their heads. She  _ knew _ what she stood to lose if Daenerys did not approve of her, but any alternative the Dragon Queen could offer, however frightening, would be nothing compared to where she had come from. She would face these dangers with a willing heart. 

 

The throne room was dark and cold, carved into and from the granite of the island’s mountain. Queen Daenerys seemed all the more powerful and beautiful now, staring her down from her slate throne. 

 

“Your Grace,” Tyrion introduced, leading her in. “I request the pleasure of introducing my cousin, the Lady Vevynne Lannister.” 

 

She didn’t miss how Daenerys stiffened at the mention of her House. 

 

“However, you will perhaps recognize her by a different name.  _ The Mockingbird. _ ” 

 

“You were our information source?” Daenerys asked. Vevynne was encouraged to see how the Queen brightened at this, even if it was subtle. 

 

“Yes, your Grace.” Her voice trembled, despite herself. 

 

“I see. The Throne has no small amount of gratitude for your efforts. If it weren’t for you I don’t know that we would have retained the Iron Fleet.” 

 

“It was not only my duty, Your Grace, but my  _ honor _ .” 

 

It seemed things were going well,  _ too well _ , perhaps. Daenerys would soon remedy this with the suspicions Vevynne had been told she would harbor. 

 

“And yet, House Lannister is your family. Why did you see fit to sabotage them?” 

 

Vevynne knew a test of integrity when she saw one, and this was most certainly it. While Queen Daenerys may have appreciated the covert efforts, she was right to be suspicious of someone who would turn tail against those to whom they were meant to pledge loyalty. As she had planned, Vevynne intended only to tell the  _ truth _ and hope it was enough. 

 

“Apart from my mother in Cornfield and my dear cousin Tyrion, my family is dead, Your Grace. My father and brother were killed in the explosion of the Sept of Baelor, an act orchestrated by Queen Cersei.” 

 

“My sincere condolences,” Daenerys said, though her eyes were no less narrowed and fixed on her. “Is this what prompted you to turn against her?” 

 

“Yes, Your Grace. Though I’m sure as you have heard from your Lord Hand and as you have witnessed, my cousin Cersei is a danger. I have known this all my life. She cares nothing for the innocent, the downtrodden, regardless of her promises. I initially moved to become close with her out of fear. I felt if I won her favor I could protect her wrath from those I loved most. I was wrong.” 

 

Daenerys seemed to ruminate over this information for awhile, her expression unchanged. Vevynne looked to Tyrion for some indication of how she was fairing, but he did not seem encouraged. She hadn’t followed his instructions. 

 

“The trouble is, Lady Vevynne,” Daenerys said finally. “Difficult decisions must sometimes be made for the greater good. I, myself, do not pretend to be innocent of having made these decisions, as you well know. When Dickon Tarly refused to bend the knee, refused every chance I presented to him for mercy, I did what must be done. Am I to believe you don’t resent me for burning your former betrothed?” 

 

She swallowed thick, and the cold room suddenly began to feel much hotter. How Daenerys had known of this engagement she couldn’t be sure, though Lord Varys’ name seemed to be stamped all over it. Again, she held no ill will or blame towards Queen Daenerys for her questions or her suspicions, but she did so very much want to prove the tenacity of her allegiance.

 

“I was fond of Dickon, Your Grace, of that I will be honest...but he was a fool. For however loyal he might have been to what he felt was right, that is the difficult truth. He was a fool for not seeing the truth of your strength, for not understanding what I  _ know _ will accomplish for the seven kingdoms.”

 

Another beat of silence passed and Vevynne waited with bated breath to hear the Queen’s final verdict. 

 

“While I commend and am grateful to you, Lady Vevynne, for your efforts, I’m afraid your loyalties remain too much of a mystery. I understand why you sabotaged your cousin, but I’ve yet to hear any convincing argument that you would not do the same to me. In light of this, the most I can offer is safe escort and passage from Dragonstone to the location of your choosing.”

 

Her spirits fell and her heart broke, but she was no less desperate to prove herself. Tyrion made several admirable attempts to defend her, but Vevynne chose once again to take matters into her own hands. She fell to her knees before the Queen, her head bowed. 

 

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but you don’t understand. You are the mother of dragons, the breaker of chains, and so you have broken mine. I was prisoner to House Lannister all my life, for however much I loved my family. Cersei treated me no different. I yearned to be free, as far back as I can remember, and I made one such effort that was fruitless. You have released me.  _ You _ have given me the power to serve the greater good of the realm and I have chosen you. I choose you, Your Grace. My Queen, the only one that I will ever hold in my heart.” 

 

It was a last ditch attempt, laden with pathetic desperation, perhaps an embarrassment to everyone present, but Vevynne couldn’t find it in her to care. For the first time in a very long time she spoke her truths without smoke and mirrors, and in this, Queen Daenerys had liberated her as well. No more secrets. No more lies. No more facades. 

 

She heard footsteps approach her but she did not move from genuflection, not until a delicate hand was holding her chin, beckoning her to look up. Daenerys’ eyes met her, now soft and merciful. 

 

“You have bent the knee,” she observed with a warm smile. “There is risk in that for one who still clings to dishonesty. But I believe I see truth in your eyes.” 

 

Daenerys took her hands in her own and helped her to her feet. Vevynne wondered that a Dragon Queen’s touch could be so gentle, unmarred by scars and calluses. 

 

“As you have chosen me, so I choose you, Lady Vevynne. If it is your wish to save Westeros by my side, I will grant it to you. But know this. If you betray me, there will be no excuse that will save you.” 

 

Vevynne blinked away tears. “Never, Your Grace. You are my Queen and my true savior. My life and my service are yours.” 

* * *

 

As a token of the Queen’s esteem Vevynne was gifted new clothes, a pairing of outfits that better suited Dragonstone and, eventually, their ultimate goal of Winterfell. They were like nothing she had worn before, being that one included a set of trousers and the other was laden with furs. Though they would take some time to become accustomed to she was endlessly grateful and made sure that was communicated to Daenerys. 

 

Having never worn trousers before, even during her time on the road, she elected to explore a bit of the castle and break them in, in doing so. Any excuse to see more of the island while she could, particularly now that the fog had broken and the surrounding land and sea were more visible in the sunlight. 

 

It was marginally cooler on Dragonstone than at King’s Landing, she observed, owed no doubt to the winds that blew off of the water. For this reason she was glad of the cream-colored overcoat, textured with a design that mimicked the scales of dragons. It was warm and made her feel that much more a part of the people that had seen fit to rescue her.

 

In her explorations she hadn’t planned to find Sandor on her path, looking over the water and sky beyond from where he stood on the castle ramparts. It stopped her dead in her tracks and, for a moment, she wondered if it would not be more appropriate to pretend she hadn’t seen him at all and take a different path. Perhaps her meeting with Daenerys had empowered her, as rather than feeling that subservient need to not inconvenience anyone she now was controlled moreover by indignance. She needed answers. 

 

“For whatever I am, for whatever I’ve done,” she said as she approached him, the only announcement of her presence that she offered. “Surely I do not deserve your cruelty.” 

 

He looked at her for a moment, his expression softer and more vulnerable than she could remember having seen it before. It lasted only briefly before he turned away. 

 

“I said what had to be,” he explained. “There was no place in that pit for the truth. There’s no place in the world.” 

 

“And what _ is _ the truth?” she asked, leaning on the stone beside him. “After all this time?” 

 

He looked to her again, almost a half-glare, but he seemed too worn down now to devote as much time to anger and impatience as he used to.  

 

“After all you’ve been through and all you’ve seen, you still believe there’s time and room enough for a Hound and a-” 

 

“Stupid Lannister bitch,” she supplied. “Yes, perhaps I still am that. But you don’t  _ know _ what I’ve seen or what I’ve been through in the time since our paths diverged.” 

 

He managed a laugh, perhaps in irritation. “You saw the corpse as well as any of them. You know what’s coming for us.” 

 

“What, the end of the world?” she challenged. “An army of undead? Both of which would render all the things that kept us apart null and void? That  _ cannot _ be your argument.” 

 

He said nothing to this, his gaze falling to the ground as, perhaps, he was out of things to counter her with. She took the risk of taking his hand in her own. 

 

“Against all odds, we find ourselves together again. There is no omnipotent force standing between us. If there is anything that is keeping us apart, it is  _ you _ , my love...and if that is your sincere wish, I will respect it.” 

 

Not that it wouldn’t eat her from the inside out, but she had to know. She had to hear that command from his lips, without any outside force prompting him to say what ‘had to be’. He shook his head. 

 

“I’ll never understand,” he said. “You could have any man you set eyes on.  _ You _ choose to waste your efforts on a fire-bitten dog who wants nothing more than to see his brother dead, even if it kills him.”

 

“You are far more than that.” She placed another hand on his scars, as she had lifetimes ago, coaxing him to look at her. He did, after a time. “I love a man who is brave, generous, who hides his gentle heart in fear that it will be seen as a weakness. I love a man who, despite all these things, does not see his true worth. I would  _ help _ him understand, if he would allow me.”

 

He gradually turned towards her, though it was with every effort in him to fight it, she could tell, under some misplaced need, some belief that he was wrong to take the refuge she offered. His hand found her cheek as well, his fingers sifting into the fringes of her hair. 

 

“I shouldn’t let this happen,” he said, even as they drew closer together. “A man like me can’t claim to love you if he wouldn’t spare you of himself. There’s nothing I could do that would be more cruel than that.” 

 

“It is  _ my _ choice,” she argued. “And I have made it. What is yours?” 

 

He answered her by pressing his lips to hers, insistent and desperate, and she fell into this kiss with every bit of the same, if not more. Her hand moved to his chest and, underneath his padded armor, she could feel the outline of a familiar shape. 

 

“The locket,” she observed, after they parted. “I had hoped you would sell it. It is worth no small amount of coin-” 

 

“I’m a selfish bastard. You know that now. I had to keep a part of the woman near me I knew I’d never see again.” 

 

She kissed him again and then said with a smile against his lips, “But you were wrong.”

 

“And I’m glad for it.” 

 

As in her dreams he hoisted her up into his arms without much warning, to which she answered with a giggle of surprise, wrapped her arms around him. 

 

“We have a lot of time to make up for,” she gleefully pointed out, knowing full-well where this all was heading and delighting in it. 

 

“Most of which will be spent figuring out how to get you naked,” he said as he carried her back towards the direction of the castle. “If you came to me with the hope of making love,  _ why _ in seven hells did you wear pants?”  

She nuzzled his ear, noting the new gap where the assailant from long ago had bitten out a chunk. 

 

“I’ve always managed to get  _ yours _ off, haven’t I?” 

 

This was no dream and, yet, it was far better than anything her subconscious mind could have ever conjured up. 


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happiness is found as darkness encroaches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY this chapter took longer to come out, I've been bogged down with work the past few days. I'm gonna be honest, a lot of this chapter is just pure self-indulgent fluff. Not without some exposition and plot building stuff, of course, but still. Been waiting A LONG time for what happens in this chapter, useless though it may be, and I wasn't gonna squander that opportunity LMAO. I really appreciate all the positive, encouraging comments on this. While I'm having so much fun writing it and I am endless ball of insecurity about my own work (as ever) and knowing people are enjoying it as much as me gives me the encouragement to keep going despite it all. As I said, there's not a ton of plot development in this particular chapter but we're getting into some meaty stuff going forward, namely the rest of the story and the big decisions that will be very different from what happened in canon. This gives me the most anxiety because I really don't know how my choices for the 'end' will be received, but well. One can only do one's best, yes? 
> 
> For whatever it's worth, the ancestor Vevynne mentions in this chapter is 100% canon to the books. I thought it was a nice coincidence and would've been a shame not to mention. Further cemented that I chose the right placement for my OC in this universe.

The morning broke with the faraway sound of dragon cries, still loud enough to rouse her from her slumber. Her eyes opened to see them flying in the early mists, weaving in and out of the cloud cover. It was a welcome, waking reminder that the past day hadn’t just been an elaborate dream, that she wasn’t going to find herself back in the red blankets of the Keep. She turned over to ensure the _ other  _ part of her memory wasn’t failing her either, that Sandor was indeed where she had left him the night before. 

 

She indulged in a moment of observing him in the last throes of sleep, his eyelids fluttering just subtly, his broad chest falling in and out with deep waves of breath. Tempting though it was she wouldn’t try to wake him, noting that he had probably endured a very long time without uninterrupted sleep and a feather down bed. Perhaps it hadn’t been since they were last together at King’s Landing. It may not have been ever again if the efforts North weren’t successful, but she tried not dwell on such things now. 

 

If she fell at the hand of the Night King and the army of undead, she would be grateful for the small window of time in which she knew true happiness. It was more than she would’ve ever asked for. 

 

Another sound soon accompanied the distant roars, one familiar, much closer in cadence. It sounded as though a bird had landed on the sill of the closed window in the opposite corner of the room and saw fit to give a morning serenade. A thought crossed her mind, one that logic told her was unlikely, but she seized her robe and flew over nonetheless, throwing open the heavy curtains. 

 

Sure enough, there awaiting her was her darling Secret. She was so enraptured with the find, so charmed that her friend had saw fit to follow her, that she didn’t notice the light from the newly opened window had cast itself directly into Sandor’s eyeline. He grunted out several curses, shifted about a bit in indignation. 

 

“What’ve you got the bloody window open for?” he groaned, to which she replied by coaxing Secret to perch on her finger, by bringing her over for Sandor to see. 

 

He looked from her to Secret with unimpressed, sleepy eyes. “You’ve become a bird charmer then, have you? The Seven help us if you’re going to be doing this every morning.” 

 

Vevynne smirked. “You offend her! She is not just  _ any _ bird. She is the smartest, most adept messenger in all of Westeros.” 

 

Sandor sighed. “I won’t believe a word of it until she can figure out I don’t want birds singing at my window this fucking early in the morning.” 

 

She playfully threw the blankets back over him with encouragement to go back to sleep, then comforted Secret. “Never you mind him, my darling. You are a wonder and I won’t tolerate a single word against you. Will you stay with me then? Are we to be inseparable?” 

 

“Oh, she’s talking to it now,” Sandor groaned into his hands. 

 

“Perhaps one day she’ll talk back,” Vevynne argued, placing Secret to perch on a nearby chair, then dressing back in the outfit gifted to her. “I wouldn’t put it past her. She’s such a marvel.” 

 

Her efforts in pinning up her hair and proudly placing the Targaryen sigil on her overcoat didn’t go unnoticed by her lover, however grumpy he might have been about being woken up. 

 

“Where’re you going?” he asked. 

 

“I thought I might seek another audience with Her Grace. A private one this time, if she’ll allow me. I have it on good authority that she tends to the dragons at this time on the moors, before they feed.” 

 

It was as she explained her ultimate destination that Sandor had risen and come up behind her, brushed a stray bit of hair from her neck so to better lay a lingering kiss there. 

 

“You think it  _ wise _ to meet dragons when they’re hungry?” he challenged, his hands finding her waist. “How do you know they won’t swallow you whole?” 

 

She leaned back, smiled and nuzzled into his cheek. “How do I know  _ you _ won’t?” 

 

“Stay a bit longer with me and find out.”

 

How could she ever refuse such a request? Besides, she reasoned, it was rather early. Perhaps Queen Daenerys would have her own reasons for getting a later start as well. 

* * *

  
  


Some time later Vevynne found her way from the castle, over the fog laden hills to where Queen Daenerys stood alone. It wasn’t like her not to have at least one guard in her company and she supposed that might have stood as a sign; the dragons hadn’t yet eaten, after all. Nevertheless she was drawn to them as she was her new Queen, unable to shy away from their potential danger no more than she could their existence as a whole. One had to accept the good with the bad. 

 

Secret accompanied her of her own accord, sometimes flitting about nearby, sometimes resting on her shoulder. The little bird was even more fearless than Vevynne thought prior. 

“Your Grace,” she greeted as she approached, still a safe distance away in the event Daenerys didn’t feel safe with her here. That concern was dispelled when her two dragons landed, leaving in their wake a windstorm that nearly blew her away and a shake that resonated the earth beneath her feet. Daenerys was unmoved, turned to her with the same air of confidence that she always had. 

 

“Lady Vevynne. You’ve caught me at a rather dangerous time, I’m afraid.” 

 

“I’m not afraid of the dragons, your Grace,” she attempted, but then one of them seemed to take issue with her lack of trepidation and let out another loud bellow. She was quick to amend, “I-...I’m sorry, that was a lie. I  _ am _ quite scared. But then...I have rather wanted to meet them properly.” 

 

“They haven’t had their breakfast yet,” Daenerys said and she couldn’t tell if that was a warning or just a statement of fact. “But you needn’t worry. I think you’re a bit too small to rouse their appetites.” 

 

She didn’t know whether to come any closer or keep a respectful distance. Both dragons were eying her with either suspicion or intent, she couldn’t tell which. 

 

“Rhaegal and Drogon,” Daenerys introduced, then beckoned her forward. “It’s alright, really.” 

 

The fear of what  _ could _ happen, as it so often did, seemed to only entice her forward, so she followed her Queen’s command and favored the green of the two, Rhaegal; he didn’t seem quite as ferocious as Drogon, though that was a relative term when facing down two of the largest, strongest, fiercest creatures she’d ever seen. 

 

Rhaegal bowed his head toward her as she came closer to him. He sniffed her and the suction of air from his nostrils was nearly strong enough to knock her over. 

 

“She’s a friend,” Daenerys assured him. “The Lady Vevynne. If you are kind to her, perhaps she’ll give you a nice scratch.” 

 

The dragons were far smarter than she counted on. Having seemed to understood his mother completely, Rheagal moved his massive head to the side to allow Vevynne the chance to extend an arm (albeit a shaking one) and chance a touch to his scaled cheek. When she became comfortable enough with this, the touch turned into an affectionate caress. It was all too much, the connection moved her to tears.  

 

“I’m petting a dragon…” she marveled to no one in particular. “What a wonder life can be sometimes.” She turned to Daenerys and asked, “Do they know how wonderful they are? It was a known fact all my life that we would never see dragons in the world again. They are living legends, as is their mother.” 

 

Daenerys smiled warm. “You flatter me, Lady Vevynne...and flattery will get you  _ everywhere _ with these two. Best not to feed their egos.” 

 

But Vevynne couldn’t help herself, moving to give Rhaegal that scratch he’d been promised underneath his chin. He hummed out the most charming noise, something between a purr and a trill, and closed his eyes in enjoyment. 

 

“You are a miracle, my darling,” she told him, softer so that only they two could hear. “The greatest I’ve ever seen.” 

 

“We  _ should _ , however, feed them properly,” Daenerys said after a time, climbing onto Drogon’s back as easily as one does a horse. “Would you care to accompany me?” 

 

She was taken back by the offer, simultaneously enthralled and frightened. 

 

“I’ve...never been up so high before,” was all she could manage to answer with. Daenerys motioned to the space behind her. 

 

“Join me. Nothing will happen...so long as you hold on tight.” 

 

Vevynne assured her she’d do nothing less and endured some slipping as she attempted to mount Drogon. It was easily the most insane thing she’d ever been offered, but how in seven hells could she refuse it? She’d regret it the rest of her days if she did. 

 

Daenerys pulled her the rest of the way up, and she was barely seated before Drogon was lifting his wings, building up momentum, and then lifting himself off into the wide expanse of the sky. On instinct Vevynne wrapped her arms tightly around her Queen’s waist, willed herself to look at the view around them even as her stomach dropped and her legs turned to molten jelly. 

 

“One becomes accustomed!” Daenerys shouted back to her over the roar of the air that flew past their ears. 

 

“I don’t imagine  _ you _ had to, your Grace!” Vevynne replied. “It must have come natural from the first go!” 

 

She heard Daenerys laugh. “I  _ am _ a dragon, Lady Vevynne, you musn’t compare my first time with your own.” 

 

They continued to sail through and above the fog, gliding as easily as a hot knife through butter, and as time wore on Vevynne did indeed become more comfortable with what had been completely unknown to her. She felt the whole experience was her newfound freedom peaked into one glorious moment. This is what it meant to choose for one’s self, this is what it meant to overlook the binds of Westeros that had kept her tethered for so long and see how small and inconsequential all of it was.  _ This _ is what it meant to fly with dragons. 

 

Drogon eventually found a meal in a herd of wild horses, landed to feast with his brother after he had seized one in his claws. Daenerys and Vevynne disembarked to give them time to enjoy their breakfast. 

 

“I try to always accompany them when they hunt,” Daenerys explained as they stood over a cliff’s face, looking out over the sea as the sunrise broke over the waves. “It may be hard for most to believe that they  _ are _ benevolent and gentle...but it can be difficult for them to see true destruction in the face of their hunger.” 

 

The regret in her eyes spoke of occasions where such destruction had happened beyond her control, to which Vevynne would not prod her to elaborate. 

 

“I remembered something very curious today, Your Grace,” she said, endeavoring to change the subject. “My mother is of House Swyft, of Cornfield. An ancestor of mine from her side served Aegon I as member of the King’s Guard.” 

 

Daenerys’ eyes lit up. “Did he really?” 

 

“Ser Addison Hill,” Vevynne nodded with pride. “He was named Lord Commander and served him loyally until his death.” She purposefully left out mention of the fact that most in the family refused to speak of this fact, perhaps in equal measure due to Ser Hill’s bastard origins and Targaryen allegiance. 

 

“You might have told me upon your introduction,” Daenerys suggested with a grin. “I would have been far merciful earlier on.” 

 

“You were far more merciful than a Lannister deserves,” Vevynne assured her. “And I wished to be judged for myself, rather than the actions of my ancestors...however noble they might have been.” 

 

“In any case, it seems fate has once again brought together a Targaryen and a Swyft in service of one another.”    
  


“I am glad of it, Your Grace. Endlessly so.” 

 

Their collective gaze was now drawn towards the North, which they could not see from their island, of course, but was no less present in their minds. 

 

“Though it would seem you and I face down a much more formidable opponent than those of our predecessors,” Daenerys mused, solemn and focused. “It makes one almost wish it was just a matter of House politics.” She turned back to Vevynne and asked the most difficult question she could, “Do you believe Cersei truly intends to pledge her forces to the Northern cause?” 

 

Vevynne had heard that this had been the promise made prior to her departure, she  _ had _ seen the true, childlike fear in her cousin’s eyes when the Wight was let loose. 

 

“I...wish I could say one way or the other with full confidence, Your Grace,” she replied, honest. “At the heart of things my cousin is anything but predictable. She is proud and lets her darkest impulses rule her...and she rules solely for her own self-interest. It would, of course, be in her best interest and that of her unborn child to see her pledge through...but Cersei seldom thinks in those terms.” 

 

“I appreciate your honesty,” Daenerys said. “I appreciate the input of my Lord Hand as well...but I fear when matters concern his sister he is biased in his love for her. Despite all things, he wants to believe the best of her. That is admirable in and of itself, but it is of no great use to me.” 

 

Vevynne sighed in regret. If there was any guilt she would associate with Cersei’s inevitable fall it would be Tyrion’s subsequent grief. 

 

“Tyrion’s love is endless and without conditions. He longs for an outcome that spares his sister,” she agreed. “But Cersei won’t have it. She will have the Throne or she will die clinging it to it. I admit it is the outcome that I crave, but I will take no pleasure in seeing him heartbroken.” 

 

Daenerys took her hand. 

 

“Then crave it for the sake of the realm, Lady Vevynne. We know it is in the best interest of the whole. Revenge can seem sweet in the abstract, even in the moment of success...but it will not restore what has been lost. We have to work now for what can be gained.” 

 

The sentiment struck hard in her mind, enough to stay there and give her something to contemplate for a long while. She knew Daenerys had to speak from personal experience, from a wisdom that wasn’t common among people their age (but certainly necessary for a Queen). She also must have known in some logical, but deeply buried part of her mind that this was true, nothing she could enact upon Cersei would bring back Lancel and her father, but there was something in the Queen’s saying so that made her realize its truth on a more visceral level. 

 

She had always worked with the best interest of the realm in mind, just perhaps not as close to the surface as she should have been. 

 

As she had nothing mindful to add to this, it was fortunate that Secret would make her reappearance (with the dragons a safe distance away) and introduce herself to the Queen properly. Vevynne wondered again that a Dragon Queen could treat so small and seemingly fragile a creature with such a gentle touch. 

Such was the nature of a mother, she supposed. 

* * *

  
  
  


As she hadn’t found Sandor in his quarters that evening, it took some amount of asking around and searching before she located him on the beach, assisting with efforts for the journey to White Harbor and, ultimately, Winterfell. The day of departure was soon approaching and all hands were needed in preparation. 

 

“You found your dragons then,” he guessed, as she set to work helping him with loading crates (the ones she could lift, anyway- he was generous enough not to criticize her for attempting). 

 

“Not  _ my _ dragons, of course, but yes. They were magnificent. I hardly felt worthy enough to take up space beside them.” 

 

“Perhaps you weren’t,” he suggested. “You’re still alive.” 

 

She rolled her eyes. “If being _ worthy _ of a dragon means becoming a meal then I am glad I didn’t live up to expectation.” 

 

“As am I,” he admitted, though ever shy of open claims of affection he didn’t make eye contact with her as he said this. She smiled at him nonetheless and when they had finished with what could be done in a day, she took his hand and led him down the ever darkening stretch of sand. 

 

“I feel I already know the answer,” she said with some small amount of trepidation for what she was working towards. “But have you given any thought to what we might do if the efforts in the North are successful?” 

 

“Be alive,” he replied flatly. “Or not. If the unthinkable happens and we somehow find a way to kill this Night King, that doesn’t mean  _ we _ will live to see it.” 

 

“Imagine we do, then,” she pressed. “We survive. And then…?” 

 

“ _ Then _ we have King’s Landing to overtake.” 

 

“A rather simple feat in the wake of having destroyed thousands of undead, don’t you think?” 

 

He sighed, seemingly both in irritation and regret. “I have my brother to contend with. Likelihood says that will kill me. You knew that. You’ve  _ always _ known that.” 

 

“I don’t pretend to know the future.” 

 

The reality of that, or rather, the reality of Sandor’s determination to exact revenge, hung between them. She had been ruminating over Daenerys’ words the whole day, moreover what it meant for her, but also what it might mean for him. She didn’t know if he was prepared to hear it however. 

 

“I  _ know _ you’re driven by revenge,” she admitted. “I know it’s what’s driven you far longer than it has me.” 

 

She felt him look over to her in curiosity, to which she explained, “Oh...I haven’t told you. The wildfire explosion of the Sept. It was orchestrated by Cersei. It claimed Lancel and my father. While I don’t think they would have been her sole targets under any other circumstance, I-” 

 

“Don’t make excuses for her,” Sandor scoffed and she felt him hold her hand a bit tighter. “She deserves what’s coming for her- every terrible bit of it.” 

 

There was a time she would have agreed with him wholeheartedly. There was a time her grief-stricken rage cried out for nothing less, but now...things were different. 

 

“Killing Cersei won’t bring them back,” she said, echoing Daenerys’ sentiment. “It won’t restore what’s been lost to me. It’s no longer a question for me of what an individual deserves. This is a matter of the safety of the realm.” 

 

He shook his head and managed one of those familiar, dismissing chuckles. He was not going to be so easily swayed by this mentality, she had known that. 

 

“What are we protecting?” he asked no one in particular. “In the end, what does it matter? The world is made up of liars and cheats and killers. They’ll go on doing what they’ve always done if the Night King is denied his say. Good people will die, shit people will go on shitting on everyone and every  _ thing _ . Perhaps we’ve been championing the wrong ruler. Maybe we all deserve to become mindless corpse soldiers in the end.” 

 

She hadn’t expected his pesissim to ever go away completely, nor would she have asked it to. It was as much a part of him as anything else. How could he have seen things differently? The life he’d led, the things that had been done to him- anything else would’ve made little sense. 

 

Regardless, she knew in this pessimism there was discontent. Something continued to hold him back from seeing the world beyond shades of stark black and white.

 

“But there  _ are _ good people,” she pointed out, repeating his own words. “You’ve known them, I’ve known them. What if I told you that’s who we were fighting for? People like Sally and her father, Septon Ray and his congregation-” 

 

“All dead,” he quipped, though less with aggravation and more a sigh of regret. Though he clung to his views, the things that in some strange way, kept him  _ safe _ , she could see that he was tired. Rage was a difficult, exhausting burden to keep one afloat, she  _ knew _ that. “And all because of me.” 

 

“You took the blade to them yourself?” she pressed, with no small amount of disbelief. 

 

“ _ No _ ...but I might as well have done. You were right, long ago. I should have stayed and helped the farmer. They might have had a chance. I should have been there when the congregation was slaughtered. And I wasn’t. Because, at the heart of things, I’m a selfish cunt. There’s no escaping that for me.” 

 

“I watched a dragon defecate today,” she said, apropos of nothing, it seemed, which earned her a puzzled look from Sandor. “And it was still _ less _ a pile of shit than all of the things you just said.” 

 

Despite the former heaviness of the conversation neither one of them could stifle a small laugh at such a ridiculous argument. She took pride in that, seeing him smile sincerely for what might have been the first time. 

 

“I  _ am _ sorry about Septon Ray...Sally and her father,” she said after a time, when the momentary humor had past and those deaths hung over them like a dark cloud. “Maybe your doing something, or being there would’ve changed the outcome. Maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference. The point is, if you were  _ truly _ as selfish as you claim those deaths would mean nothing to you. You wouldn’t be here in the first place, preparing to go fight for the world at Winterfell. You  _ know _ this, Sandor, I don’t need to tell you.” 

 

Once again she had rendered him speechless, without argument, and that was proof enough to her that he acknowledged this truth. She knew how frightening it had to be to accept. 

 

But then, much to her surprise, he spoke again. 

 

“How do you explain  _ us _ then? I’ve already told you. A good man would know better. A good man wouldn’t resign you to someone like me.” 

 

“And I’ve already told  _ you _ \- you aren’t resigning me to anything. I choose you. I choose  _ this _ .” 

 

When he had looked away from her, once again bereft of anything to rally back, she felt compelled to mention, “Before Euron I was briefly engaged to Dickon Tarly during our separation. My father’s choosing. He was, perhaps, what you might have chosen for me as well. A fool, but a good man. Simple. No rage, no complexities. The match was ideal in all aspects but the fact that marrying him would’ve left me miserable. I would never love him.” 

 

“You can’t be sure of that,” he argued, though the way he still looked at and lightly kicked the sand told her he preferred the alternative she suggested. He wanted her to be happy, that much was clear even if he hadn’t come out and explicitly said so, but imagining her with someone else was  _ almost _ too much. 

 

“Yes I can,” she said, stopping them where they were and taking his hands in her own. “Because I love one man and there will never be another like him. That is why I  _ hope _ ...that he will see fit to accept my proposal of marriage.” 

 

He looked to her as if she had just suggested the sky was in flames. She’d never seen such shock on his face, nor the same kind of fear that was riddled there now. 

 

“You’re  _ proposing _ to me…?” he marveled, less a question and more an attempt to wrap his mind around what was happening. “You’re making a bloody fucking formal proposal.” 

 

“It would seem so.” 

 

She wanted to grin and let out all the mirth inside her at the fact that she had found the courage to even bring it up, but having seen the torment in his eyes she instead comforted him with a hand on his cheek. 

 

“If it’s too much-...” she coaxed. “I know there’s much to think and fret about right now, but-” 

 

He pulled her close to him, desperate, his limbs trembling. He was a man on the precipice of something he wanted so  _ badly _ but could not allow himself to have. 

 

“It can’t-...there would be no future in it. I can’t do that to you, don’t  _ ask _ me to do that to you.” 

 

She pressed her forehead to his. 

 

“We will likely die, Sandor. We both know this. I have been through too many engagements with men I did not love. All the while I could only think of how badly I wanted you. Us.  _ This _ . I fear only a death in which we are not bound and safe from any of those things that would tear us apart again.” 

 

They shared in a kiss then that felt as if it lasted a lifetime. She wished it had. She wished they wouldn’t have had to leave this island, this beach, this moment in time. 

 

“I’ve no hope of helping myself,” he confessed. “I can’t keep myself from you any easier than we can keep the undead from marching on us. If this is truly what you want-” 

 

And in a desperate whisper against his lips, 

  
“More than anything.  _ Please _ . Marry me.” 


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So....*checks notes* I have no idea if it vibes with GoT lore to have a monarch officiate a wedding (spoiler). I figured since the monarch kind of makes the rules it could be a thing, also I could think of no other character present at this time that would have had a similar authority. Also the wedding ceremony mentioned is pretty secular, so there's that. Threw in the Dothraki wedding vows since it seemed apropos for who was officiating. Uhhh...I think? That's it? 
> 
> Fair warning, going forward I'll begin to allude to other pairings that will exist in this universe. They won't be the focus by any means but I'll start tagging as they manifest in case anyone wants to jump out (fair!). Do remember in the case of pairings that might be somewhat controversial that this is my take on the canon events and where there might have been incest before, there may not be here. (HINTHINT, BIG HINT) But again, focus is on the main pairing at all times, the rest will be peripheral. So there's that. 
> 
> Thanks again SO MUCH for all the lovely feedback. I haven't yet had time to reply to everyone but I will try to do that in time. I love it so much that you all are enjoying this journey as much as me.

_ “As you are the Moon of his life, he shall be your Sun and Stars.” _

 

When Vevynne had approached her Queen with the request, she was met with a combination of shock and well-wishes...as well hesitation. 

 

“I don’t know that there’s  _ time _ -” 

 

“I ask for a brief and small ceremony, Your Grace. It could be done aboard ship, if it pleases you. I ask only that I may become his wife. We have waited longer than I can say.” 

 

Daenerys smiled warmly at that reply and gave a nod of consent. 

 

“My sincerest congratulations to you, Lady Vevynne,” she wished her, closing their hands together. “It would be my honor to officiate.” 

 

_ “Your love will be the guiding force that charts the course of your tomorrows, holds your world together in difficult times, and will make life itself shine bolder and brighter than we human beings have a right to dream of.”  _

 

Vevynne had told her she was more than content to wear the Winterfell furs that she had been granted prior, the necessary clothing choice for the bitterly cold North as it was- but as it seemed she and Daenerys had forged a bond of sorts, the Queen wouldn’t hear of her not having something ceremonial. 

 

“It was mine when I married the Khal,” she explained as she handed it over the silken gown the night before they departed. As Vevynne held it up, revealing how thin it was, Daenerys explained, “It... _ is _ more suited to warmer climates, but with an addition of sleeves, furs, I think it will suit you well.” 

 

“I will alter it myself,” Vevynne said with teary eyes, just before taking her Queen into a firm embrace. Daenerys was thankfully just as tactile as she and hugged her back with a strength deceptive to her small body. When they pulled apart Vevynne thanked her properly and promised to give the dress back in its original state after the ceremony. 

 

Daenerys then mentioned one more gift she wished to bestow, something she’d had made after accepting the request. 

 

“The gown originally held a Targaryen sigil as pin,” she explained, placing something small and hard, wrapped in cloth in Vevynne’s palm. “But I do believe this will be more fitting for the occasion.” 

 

Vevynne unwrapped the gift to reveal the crest of a rooster and hound, forged from silver. 

 

“A new sigil for your new House, perhaps?” Daenerys suggested. 

 

“Your Grace…” Vevynne hadn’t words to express how grateful she was, how unnecessary these gifts no matter how awed she was to receive them. Instead, she found she could only point out the obvious. “I-...I am a Lannister. Your generosity is overwhelming...and wholly undeserved.” 

 

Her Queen simply smiled.

 

“You are also a Swyft. Our families were once bound together by a pledge of loyalty and protection. As with many of Aegon’s legacies, I intend to carry this through my reign as well.” 

 

_ “We stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife: one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”  _

 

“You are...truly a sight to behold.” 

 

Tyrion was the first to witness her in her wedding gown, and though she didn’t think she cut much of a figure in the humid darkness of the hold, he looked to her as a proud father might. Though she loved her cousin and found him more than sufficient company, she wished more than anything that her father could have joined them in this moment, that this union would have made him proud. Neither were true, but that was the beauty of an imagination. 

 

“Thank you, cousin.” She took his hand in her own, and he brought her knuckles to his lips. 

 

“Trite though it may sound,” he said after a time. “It feels like not a day ago you were as tall as me, skipping through the gardens of Casterly Rock. Do you remember that game we used to play?” 

 

Vevynne laughed. “I don’t know that it was so much a  _ game _ as it was me piling bouquets of unsolicited flowers on you.” 

 

“Well,  _ yes _ , it started that way, but I quickly learned I could use it teach you how to count- bring back 20 flowers exactly and I would let you weave them into my hair.” 

 

She grinned, mischievous. “Does the agreement still stand? If I somehow procured 20 flowers today, would you let me decorate you for the ceremony?” 

 

He gave her a withering, but teasing glare. “Not even on your wedding day, I’m afraid. I cannot deny a three year old child anything, but a grown woman who has learned the art of espionage, well-” 

 

Vevynne stood up then, quite without warning, and Tyrion looked to her in confusion. 

 

“Will you walk with me?” she asked. 

 

He blinked, seemingly uncertain of the request. “Accompany you out, or-...?” 

 

“Give me away,” she corrected. “Growing up, you were the closest thing I ever had to an attentive father. Would you?” 

 

Touched though he obviously was, he looked away from her in shame. “I cannot-...the discrepancy of our heights-” 

 

“Cousin,” she knelt down and took his hands in her own, looking him in the eyes. “Walk beside me. That’s all I ask. I would have no one else.”  

 

_ “Let it be known that Sandor of House Clegane and Lady Vevynne of House Lannister are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder.”  _

 

The ceremony was lit by the warm, ever-sinking rays of the sun, attended by those aboard the Queen’s vessel- some of whom she hardly yet knew, but seemed glad enough of a brief, happy refrain from the dark reality of their situation. A reminder was ever present, however, in the glacial winds that blew off the waves rocking beneath them. 

 

Sandor awaited her where Daenerys stood, and she felt he had never looked more beautiful or more frightened. 

 

_ “Look upon each other and say the words.”  _

 

This fear of his only seemed to ease when their hands were joined, when Daenerys wrapped them with the tie and they looked to each other- in that moment, the only two that existed in the world. 

 

_ “I am hers and she is mine. From this day until the end of my days.”  _

 

_ “I am his and he is mine. From this day until the end of my days.”  _

 

Their lips joined, perhaps far longer than was necessary, but as they knew they were sailing to their deaths they would savor this bit of blissful oblivion as much as they could.

 

As agreed, they then bent the knee together to their Queen, pledged their faith to her as husband and wife. 

 

Against expectation, however, was what Daenerys said next. 

 

“You have spoken your vows and bent the knee. Just as you have pledged your lives in service to one another, so you have to your Queen. I would therefore name you both Lord and Lady Clegane of Cornfield. In your marriage merges the Houses of Clegane and Swyft. These lands will be placed under your protection when the Iron Throne is claimed.”

 

They shared a look then of mutual disbelief. 

 

* * *

  
  


“Where does she get off thinking I want or would ever ask for that kind of responsibility?” 

 

When the ecstasy of their marital consummation and the afterglow of the union had ebbed, Sandor fell back on his irritation at Daenerys’ unsolicited gift. Vevynne expected as much. 

 

“She is our  _ Queen _ ,” she chuckled, albeit sleepily. “I don’t think she has to consult us in these matters.” 

 

“Bloody well would’ve appreciated it.” 

 

He handed her a freshly poured goblet of wine and she shifted in the sheets, propped up the pillows to accept and imbibe. He cut a rather amusing figure, still bare but for his under shirt, stewing in frustration on the side of the bed. 

 

“She has to plan accordingly for her Kingdom. My mother’s house is not currently in support of her, Clegane Hall stands empty. She’s wise to gift allies a Lordship of Cornfield. I don’t doubt we’ll see more of the same in other reaches of Westeros...if, against all odds, everything goes in our favor.” 

 

She knew on some level he had to be aware of that already. His issues were more in the principle of the thing than the logistics, she supposed, but perhaps a reminder would be helpful. 

 

Or not. 

 

“We’re not chess pieces to be moved about at her will. If that’s to be her style of reign she’s no better than any of the other fuckers that came before her.” 

 

Vevynne rolled her eyes, even though his back was to her. 

 

“It is not a  _ prison sentence _ . She is offering us a comfortable life, a purpose-” 

 

“She  _ offers _ nothing. She demands.” 

 

Vevynne wanted to yell out, yet again, that Daenerys was their Queen and she could demand as she liked and the fact that she was  _ demanding _ they accept titles, land and a keep of their own was hardly a bad thing. Instead she pointed out, 

 

“ _ My love _ . We bent the knee to her. We pledged fealty. You mustn’t have done so lightly if you did not wish to follow her order.” 

 

“I wasn’t going to get you otherwise, was I?” he argued, though it was punctuated in his taking her hand and pressing a kiss to her fingers. “Hardly a fair agreement.” 

 

His hand then found her leg through sheets, caressed her thigh, and she decided some other form of persuasion was in order. 

 

“ _ I  _ would pledge myself in the service of a thousand queens if that’s what stood between me and being your wife.” 

 

She crawled out from beneath the blankets, over to him, and he seized her in his arms, pulled into a straddle on his lap. 

 

“Did I mention my mother’s family raises chickens? Pens and pens of them,” she grinned against his lips. “A lifetime supply, some might say. Surely that’s not so bad a thing.” 

 

“Fucking well hope so,” he smiled back, subtle and mixed with intent, as he planted kisses down the column of her neck. “A House with a strutting cock for a sigil had better be good for that, at least.” 

 

* * *

 

She had never been to Winterfell before but it was as she expected it would be; bitterly cold, laden with blankets of glittering white snow, peaked with stark black towers that rose from the ground like mountains. In the distance the blood red leaves of the Godswood tree still grew, a stark contrast against the miles and miles of ice and alabaster and thusly, difficult to miss. She rode alongside her new husband and discovered the tired, worn, suspicious faces of the Northerners as did her Queen. 

 

For a moment she lamented once again that she was a Lannister, but had to remind herself she was hardly that anymore- a Clegane now by name, a Swyft in the following of Ser Addison Hill’s footsteps. The more she could divorce herself from the Lannister name, the better... _ especially _ now. 

 

Her eyes naturally searched for Arya, though she had no idea if the girl still lived, if she would even be here if she had survived. She’d no word one way or the other and felt guilt that she hadn’t thought to ask- but who would know? 

Another Stark from her past was present at least, the Lady Sansa, who was hardly recognizable from the girl she’d met at the Keep so long ago. Where was once a wide-eyed, hopeful young girl now stood a hardened woman, as beautiful, cold and chiseled as the ice that surrounded her. She wondered at the contrast between her and Daenerys when they met for the first time, ice and fire personified together, warring and repelling just as much. 

 

What horrors had Sansa seen in the meanwhile? What sort of pick had been taken to her to carve her into the woman of authority and strength she saw before her now? Vevynne resolved to herself to ask, and so she did sometime later, after the tension-filled meeting in the Hall.

 

“My Lady,” Vevynne greeted when she caught her unencumbered. 

 

A subtle smile tugged at the corner of Sansa’s mouth, one of recognition she hoped. “Vevynne Lannister, yes? It’s been a long while since last we saw each other.” 

 

Vevynne nodded and hesitated before amending with no small amount of pride, “Forgive me, my Lady, but...I am the Lady Clegane now.” 

 

“Oh yes?” Sansa’s eyebrows rose in a subtle, delighted surprise. “You’ve married then? The younger of the Clegane brothers, I trust.” 

 

She laughed softly. “Yes, my Lady.” 

 

Sansa paused a moment, as if in contemplation of something, and then pointed out, “I don’t recall Sandor Clegane having a Lordship of his own.” 

 

“I...suppose it isn’t a  _ formal _ title yet,” she explained. “It was bestowed upon us by her Grace Daenerys, after the ceremony.” 

 

Their eyes collectively moved to the aforementioned Queen, who stood not far from Jon Snow in the courtyard. She seemed ever mindful of the unloading of dragonglass, taking care that not a piece was lost or broken. 

 

“I see,” Sansa said, Vevynne noticing that her jaw had tightened as she watched Daenerys below. It was the first indication she got that the Lady of Winterfell did not take kindly to her Queen’s presence. “If I may ask, Lady Clegane...what prompted you to abandon the Lannisters and swear fealty to Daenerys Targaryen?” 

 

Vevynne blinked in confusion, uncertain of why her decision to  _ abandon the Lannisters _ would seem so strange. 

 

“You were _ there _ , my Lady,” she replied, more than a little incredulous. “You suffered at their hands far worse than I ever did. You know what it was like to live among them.” 

Sansa took a breath and wet her lips. “Forgive me, perhaps my wording was poor. I want to know about your _ Queen _ , specifically. What do you find inspiring about her?” 

 

This puzzled Vevynne a bit as well, as she knew Sansa couldn’t have missed Rheagal and Drogon at their dramatic arrival. Nevertheless, she knew she hadn’t the foggiest idea of what the other woman had lived through and endured since the last time they saw each other. She had to trust Sansa had her reasons for still being suspicious, beyond just the fact that she was a Northerner and, maybe, naturally inclined. 

 

And thus, Vevynne explained everything, all that she had mentioned to Daenerys and others. She was the breaker of chains, the mother of dragons, the Queen that set out to break the wheel and defend the innocent. She told Sansa of how Daenerys had broken  _ her _ chains and given her a chance at the life she’d always wanted. She spoke of how Daenerys could have easily taken King’s Landing long ago, but refused as the danger to innocents was too great. 

 

“She is my Queen, and my friend. She  _ will _ change Westeros for the better.” 

 

“I’m not concerned about Westeros,” Sansa confessed, watching her brother from the corner of her eye. “The  _ North _ is where I must focus my thoughts. For generations we have bent knees to foreign rulers who knew nothing of us,  _ cared _ nothing for our needs. How am I to believe Queen Daenerys will be any different?” 

 

Vevynne offered a sympathetic smile. 

 

“Because she is  _ here _ , my Lady. Daenerys is not Cersei. Tyrion and I know this better than anyone.” 

 

Sansa scoffed a bit under her breath. “I’m not certain of what Lord Tyrion  _ knows _ anymore.” 

 

“You and my Queen and have that in common,” Vevynne observed with a knowing smirk. “But it isn’t a matter of his knowledge or lack thereof. As I told Her Grace, Tyrion’s love runs too deep to see and accept the truth of a person’s nature.” 

 

Sansa’s gaze fell to the ground at this, perhaps in some measure of guilt, maybe due to something else entirely, but they said no more of Tyrion, Cersei, Daenerys or any other outside party. 

 

“I never got the chance to thank you properly for what you did that day in King’s Landing,” Sansa said after a time. “You and your husband both. I was fortunate to have allies present, invested in my wellbeing. I don’t know that I would have survived King’s Landing otherwise.” 

 

Vevynne didn’t know either, but she could say the same of a few people in her life. Sometimes the only difference between life and death was another individual who cared enough to stand between. Then again,  _ survival _ didn’t necessarily mean the escaping with one’s life intact. 

 

She paused and contemplated the point a moment before saying, “I’m not sure anyone really does, my Lady.” 

 

They agreed to this in silence and Vevynne, eager to see if Arya was about, inquired after her. Sansa explained she was here, but scarce. They then wished each other a good afternoon (as it good as it could be under the circumstances) and Vevynne made to leave...but not before turning around and adding, 

 

“I was once skeptical of my Queen too, Lady Stark. I understand your fears. You and I have seen how great power can trample those without a voice. I do not know that I could have sworn true fealty to her before I spoke to her properly. She is different. She is more like us than you know. If I may suggest it...speak with her in confidence, make your concerns known. You may discover the same as I did.” 

* * *

 

She had no luck in finding Arya, but that was just as well as she couldn’t be sure if Arya wanted to be found, much less by her. Vevynne knew her feelings for her former traveling companion were genuine and of much affection and admiration, but there was every possibility they weren’t requited. She was still a Lannister in some measure, after all, did conspire in the attempt to hold her for ransom, did hold a knife to her on multiple occasions. 

 

Well, it was a new day in Westeros. One could  _ hope _ , at least, for fresh beginnings before it all ended in ice and fire. 

 

She instead crossed paths with Lord Varys, Tyrion and Ser Davos, who seemed to be making the rounds of Winterfell. As she was doing much of the same she decided she might as well join their entourage. 

 

“Gentlemen,” she greeted with a nod. “Planning dark deeds in dark corners, are we?” 

 

“You’d be hard pressed to find a corner of Winterfell that  _ wasn’t _ dark, Lady Clegane,” Ser Davos said, to which she could only agree with a smile. 

 

She stood beside them to watch the arrival of troops, the establishment of the extensive camp that lay just outside the walls. It seemed to go on for miles. 

 

A troupe was arriving just then wielding a banner of a bursting sun. It seemed all their eyes drifted towards it- but then, a line of such a large House would be difficult not to spy. 

 

“Forgive my ignorance,” Vevynne said. “But I’m not as well-versed on the Northern Houses. To whom they belong?” 

 

“House Karstark,” Varys explained, gesturing for her sake to the flame-haired young woman that spoke to Maester Wolkan. “Lady Alys, their only surviving Heir.” 

 

“One of the better sigils,” Tyrion added, then looked to Ser Davos before quipping, “Beats an onion, anyway.”

 

Ser Davos was in no way offended. “Can’t argue with that.” 

 

They continued on their way and Vevynne touched Ser Davos’ arm, having taken a liking to him from afar. “But it isn’t  _ just  _ an onion, is it, Ser Davos? An onion on the sail of a proud vessel. I find that  _ much _ more intimidating than a strutting cock.”  

 

“I’m sure you know poultry better than anyone, Lady Clegane,” he said. “Have you ever been face to face with one when it’s angry? One angry rooster is far more terrifying than a pack of hungry wolves.” 

 

She shared a laugh with him over that, confessing that her few trips to Cornfield had been met once or twice with a particularly feisty pen or two. It was true that she had feared for her eyes a few times against sharp beaks and claws. 

 

“It wasn’t long ago that the Starks and Karstarks were slaughtering each other on the battlefield,” Ser Davos said to Tyrion after they had well recovered from their chicken humor. “Jon Snow brought peace to the houses.” 

 

“And our Queen is grateful,” Tyrion agreed. 

 

“Her gratitude is lovely, but that’s not my point. The Northmen are loyal to Jon Snow, not to her. They don’t know her. The Free Folk don’t know her. I’ve been up here awhile and I’m telling you, they’re stubborn as goats. You want their loyalty? You have to earn it.” 

 

Vevynne had witnessed as much upon their first arrival, had heard about the insular attitudes of Northmen long before she had ever thought she’d ever step foot in Winterfell. This news seemed to dampen Tyrion’s spirits (beyond what they already were) and she hung back to attempt encouragement. 

 

“They will know of her as we do when the battle is won,” she said to him. “She and her children will make the difference. And if they don’t...well, it won’t matter, will it? We’ll all be dead.” 

 

Tyrion managed a weak smile. “There is some consolation in that, at least. More so than in the promise of the Northmen’s eventual loyalty.” 

Even if Vevynne had further argument to make to this they spoke no more, Tyrion proceeding ahead to walk alongside Ser Davos. Instead, Lord Varys became her companion. 

 

“You take no issue being among the Starks?” he asked, with a tone that suggested he already knew the answer. “I realize you have no great love for the Lannisters either, but there _ is  _ the rather troublesome fact that your younger brothers were put to death under Robb Stark’s reign.” 

 

“Robb Stark is dead,” Vevynne replied, putting aside whatever pain was caused from the reminder. “I believe he was served more than his due for what happened to Martyn and Willem. Resenting an entire House will not restore them to me. Besides that, I’m very fond of Lady Sansa, Arya. I don’t know Jon Snow well, but he seems to lift my Queen’s spirits. I do not believe the remaining members of House Stark are reflections of their family members crimes.”

 

“I see. It’s just as well,” Lord Varys sighed. “As it was not under Robb Stark’s order that they were put to death.” 

 

Vevynne froze in her tracks, Lord Varys followed her example...as if anticipating that she might do just that. 

 

“ _ Whose _ order then?” she demanded to know, though her voice had broken. 

 

Lord Varys locked eyes with her as he revealed, “Lord Rickard Karstark. It’s my understanding that he himself was beheaded by Robb Stark for this act, thusly breaking the alliance of their houses...and at the most inopportune moment, it would seem.” 

 

Vevynne turned to look once more at the Karstark banner, a sigil she had once thought radiant and hopeful. 

 

“How divorced are you  _ really _ from a need for revenge, Lady Clegane?” Lord Varys asked. “Do you truly believe it will bring you no satisfaction?” 

 

She didn’t hear him leave to join the other two men, fixated as she was on the spot where Alys Karstark stood not moments before. 


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rage is a driving force and difficult to put aside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't think I have a ton to say for this chapter, other than I'm mostly excited for the next one. THE LONG NIGHT IS UPON US.

Quite unexpectedly Daenerys bidded her to attend an impromptu counsel meeting, one of the many they had held in the main Hall. Vevynne didn’t wish to deny her Queen’s order but she was far too curious not to inquire as to why. What benefit would her presence bring in a room of Northern House lords? 

 

“Your cousin, Ser Jaime, has arrived.  _ Only _ Ser Jaime.” 

 

She didn’t ask for further clarification, too concerned that she might be on trial alongside him. But  _ she _ had told the truth, hadn’t she? She had always been honest about Cersei’s nature, had never been optimistic or hopeful in regards to the claim of assistance. Surely Daenerys would not hold her responsible for the actions of a House she no longer considered herself part of. Even so, there was a certain measure of guilt that weighed on her. 

 

The meeting was rife with tension, maybe par for the course in these proceedings, but uncomfortable nonetheless. Jaime stood like a prisoner at trial as Daenerys listed off his crimes against the Targaryens;  _ everyone _ regarded him with suspicion and Vevynne was no exception. For as devoted as he had always been to Cersei she couldn’t imagine what would prompt him to ride North, knowing the odds would be against him. 

 

Jaime explained Cersei’s expected deception, the power that was growing behind her in the meantime, and that he had chosen a different path for the sake of the greater good. For the first time Sansa and Daenerys were in agreement- he could not be trusted. The slights against their respective Houses were too great to ignore. 

 

“Lady Clegane,” Daenerys addressed Vevynne. “You have always been forthright regarding the natures of those in your father’s House. How do you find Ser Jaime’s story?” 

 

Vevynne looked to him and he to her, and a thousand unspoken matters, concerns and points of bitterness passed between them...but above all these things was a true worry in his eyes for how she might speak of him. She may have taken pity on him for this, but being true to her Queen meant far more to her than the wellbeing of a cousin she barely knew. 

 

“Ser Jaime has been many things in the course of my life,” she said. “And I cannot say I have ever held much affection or trust for him. He has always been staunchly devoted to Cersei. I do not think he can take a piss but for her say so.” 

 

He glared at her for this, but any ferocity he meant to take in having been insulted was quickly stifled by the small titter of laughter that circled around the room. 

 

“Therefore,” she continued. “The fact that he  _ is _ here, perhaps against her wishes, must speak rather favorable to his character. Then again, this could be yet another plot. It is as you say, he  _ is _ the Kingslayer. Why not add ‘Queen’ to that title?” 

 

“Can I trust him?” Daenerys asked, looking squarely at the man in question as she did so.

Vevynne replied, “I would  _ not _ , Your Grace.” 

 

She felt Tyrion turn on her with what was most certainly hurt and shock and anger in equal measure, but she refused to reciprocate the look. She had pledged to serve her Queen loyally, as had her predecessor to Aegon I, and she would do so without exception. If it had been by her choosing she would not leave her Queen’s fate in the golden hand of Cersei’s lapdog, be him her cousin or no. And who could ask people like Lady Sansa, Queen Daenerys, to so readily let in someone who had dealt so much harm on their families? On their lives as a whole? 

 

Evidently the only person willing was a very tall, intimidating woman armored as a Knight would be. Vevynne wondered if she wasn’t, in fact, that. She also wondered that someone she’d certainly never seen before could look so familiar. 

 

The woman explained her history with Jaime, how she had been his captor, how he had saved her from men that would’ve forced themselves on her. When she mentioned having been armed and armored by him, Vevynne noticed under her cloak the glint of a Valyrian steel blade. She could barely make out the curve of a lion’s head. It had been the same the warrior had wielded the day Sandor nearly died. 

 

The rage she had felt building in her heart since hearing the truth about her brother’s murderers rose up again. It certainly didn’t aid matters that Alys Karstark sat not far behind, oblivious and unaware of what her family had wrought. She knew in some part of herself that it was wrong to fixate on and nurse such feelings, not now when the world was falling down in ruin upon them and solidarity was the only weapon they had, but she couldn’t help it. Where logic should have prevailed she saw only Martyn and Willem’s faces, what they might have looked like in the throes of their death. She saw Sandor again fighting for his life at the base of the cliff. 

 

She didn’t want to forgive. She couldn’t forget. 

 

To make matters worse this woman seemed to have convinced Sansa allowing Jaime to stay was wise, to which Jon Snow agreed. It seemed in this moment she and Daenerys were the only two in the room that wanted him gone- not nearly enough to make a consensus or matter in the slightest. For the first time in a very long time, Vevynne felt as invisible as she had in the courts of King’s Landing. 

 

* * *

  
  


She later stood near the gates of Winterfell, an attempt, however futile, to calm the nerves that felt as if they’d combust, but the woman warrior was there. She was  _ always _ there. Vevynne could only stew and imagine ways in which she might leave that woman gasping for breath, begging for life the same she had Sandor, and all in the name of payment made. How could Lady Sansa trust such a person? Perhaps she was a liar, Vevynne guessed, an expert in playing both sides against one another. She would recognize that trait in another, wouldn’t she?

 

“Lady Clegane,” came a familiar and undesired voice and she turned to see that Jaime had approached her. He was none too pleased, her new title falling out of his mouth in all but a full spat. “I came to thank you for leaving me to the wolves.” 

 

“You accomplished that perfectly well on your own,” she rallied back, teeth held tight. “But then, it isn’t like you not to defer blame for your own actions on to someone else. I’ve always been an easy target, haven’t I?” 

 

“Why are  _ you _ angry with me?” he demanded to know. “Have I not always done my best to be kind to you? Forgiving? I defended you to Cersei on multiple occasions, all the while you were making a fool out of all of us. Perhaps is this is some unsettled guilt talking.” 

 

She rounded on him. “I feel absolutely  _ no _ remorse for what I did. I will  _ never _ regret it. Cersei slaughtered my brother and father for her own benefit and I crave for nothing less than to see my Queen render her to ash as she did them.” 

 

Jaime stepped back a bit, disturbed by her as he had been before. They  _ still _ did not know each other well and he perhaps had no concept of how deep her grief ran. She hadn’t either. 

 

“That makes me  _ right _ , anyway,” he said after a time. “You never took their deaths in stride.” 

 

“How  _ could _ I?” Her teeth gritted, tears building in her eyes. “For whatever they were, they were my family. I have had to stand idly by while people I loved were tossed aside for the benefit of House politics. I will do so no longer!” 

 

She didn’t entirely realize her glare had been repositioned to the woman warrior once more, that Jaime had followed her eyes. 

 

“What could’ve Brienne possibly done?” he asked, his voice low and almost concerned. She took no notice of it, however. 

 

“Do  _ not _ speak to me as if I were a fool. She left my husband fighting for his life, all for the sake of some Lannister coin. She has no right to be here among us.” 

 

“The Hound?” She didn’t see Jaime’s eyebrows rise in impressed shock. “That must have been rather humbling for him.” 

 

Unable to stomach him or any of it anymore, she turned around to leave without any attempt to excuse herself. Jaime had a hand on her upper arm before she could do so. 

 

“Despite whatever false impression you’re under, Brienne was never paid by the Lannisters. She had pledged an oath to Lady Catelyn to protect  _ both _ of her daughters. Brienne does not treat such an oath lightly. If she went so far as to attack and defeat the Hound, it would have been for Arya’s sake. Not yours. Not his.” 

 

She was still so overcome by the rage that had made her body all but quake, it was difficult to abandon that in light of this truth. 

 

“The Valyrian steel-” 

 

“A gift. From  _ me _ . She named it Oathkeeper...if that should serve as any example of her integrity.” He released her when it became obvious she wouldn’t fight him any longer. “In any case, your husband still lives. The anger in your heart may be justified, but do not aim it at the undeserving.” 

 

Though she was left feeling like the fool she had claimed not to be, she wouldn’t accept this in front of him. Having been released she continued on her way, no more said one way or the other. 

 

* * *

  
  


She was in something of a mood when Daenerys crossed her path. Neither one of them were in much enjoyment of the company around them, so it seemed fitting and a welcome respite when her Queen invited her to come talk in private. It sometimes felt as if Daenerys was one of the only true friends she had here. They saw things in much the same way and derived comfort in that from one another. 

 

The weight of the coming war was heavy on her, that much Vevynne could see as she explained the tactics that had been decided at the war table. Very different from her, however, was Daenerys’ determination that they would be successful, that they would survive and had to anticipate what would come next when they did. The one comfort Vevynne had, had in some strange way, been the fact that they might not...but, of course, she was no Queen. She had the luxury of not having to contemplate the same. 

 

“I spoke with Lady Sansa,” Daenerys admitted, to which Vevynne took a special interest. “It did not go as well as I might have hoped.” 

 

“She requested independence for the North,” Vevynne supplied, to which her Queen nodded. 

 

“There is...logic in it. If supplying three full grown dragons and two armies do not prove my integrity to the Northerners, I fear I haven’t much chance of ever winning them over.”

 

“This concept makes you hesitate?” Vevynne guessed, having seen how Daenerys’ eyes flitted about the room, solemn and uncertain. 

 

“I had  _ hoped _ for a united realm.  A Northern separation could be dangerous for everyone.” 

 

“Forcing the North’s hand might be just as, if not more so,” Vevynne suggested as she stood closer to the hearth to warm her hands. Daenerys remained seated, but the other woman did not wonder at this. She had long ago assumed her Queen enjoyed a constant warmth inherent to her dragon-like nature. 

 

“I do not wish to force anyone to do anything against their will. That would go against every reason I vied for power to begin with...but I find myself at a loss. I had been the savior of so many in Essos. Did I serve them for the greater good? Or do I just find myself attracted to the love they offer me in kind?” 

 

Her eyes searched Vevynne’s, almost pleading in her realization. It was the first time she was seeing her Queen in a true moment of vulnerability. The North seemed to draw that out in its icey harshness. 

 

Vevynne sat back down beside her and placed a comforting hand over hers. She was not surprised to find it warmer than the hearth. 

 

“I do not pretend to understand politics, Your Grace...but perhaps there is still saving to be had here. Perhaps it falls to  _ you _ to liberate the North, as you did those in chains. There is always some danger in letting loose that which has been held down for so long. You know that better than anyone. But perhaps...perhaps the North deserves that chance.” 

 

Daenerys seemed to contemplate the point as her eyes drifted to the crackling fire. 

 

“Perhaps they do,” she agreed finally. “I have never felt more alone in the world than I do here. Could that be the grief of the North crying out for a right to be free?” 

 

Vevynne leaned back with a sigh, knowing exactly what her Queen spoke of. “It could be. I know only that I feel it too.” 

 

Daenerys looked over to her in concern and curiosity, and she did not need to ask aloud for Vevynne to know what she wondered. 

 

“It was not the Starks who issued the order to kill my younger brothers. It was the Karstarks. They snatched them from their cells and did away with them.” 

 

Now it was Vevynne’s eyes who watched the fire, as it seemed to grow hotter and brighter as did her need for justice. 

 

“They were just boys,” she muttered to no one in particular, the crack in her voice betraying residual grief. “Children. Guilty of nothing but a name they could not choose. Entire lives ahead of them to grow and become men of honor...now they exist only in my memory, forever those cherubic faces that will never know what life might have been. Only feral animals slaughter children without a second thought.” 

 

She didn’t entirely realize her fingernails were digging into the wood of the chair she sat on, but Daenerys saw. 

 

“If my brothers must be ground into the dirt, then so must the Karstark’s name. I would put an end to their House, if I could. I would wipe it from existence and burn their histories, render their Keeps to ash-” 

 

Daenerys’ hand, warm though it may have been, was the only thing that broke her from the fire that raged inside. 

 

“ _ Nothing _ will bring them back,” her Queen said, holding her gaze. “Nothing will mend the hole in your heart but time. You must allow it do its work.” 

 

It was not a formal order, for which Vevynne was appreciative, but they both knew it needn’t have been. There was nothing Daenerys would bid her that she wouldn’t do, but  _ this _ ...she would try. By the Gods, she would _ try _ . 

 

Electing to speak no more of this, Daenerys then made a request. 

 

“Vevynne, I would ask you to be in the Hall with the women and children when the night is upon us. I believe you will be a great comfort to them.” 

 

She nodded in agreement, knowing that despite her archery training she was no warrior- not with physical weapons, in any case, and this was most certainly a battle of that nature. Even so, Daenerys handed her a dragonglass dagger in the event she may need to fight for her life. Vevynne expected she would. 

* * *

  
  


She tucked the dagger beneath her cloak and furs, knowing full-well that if the worst came to pass it would do little more than a butter knife. That was rather the point though, wasn’t it? She’d always said she would never die cowering in a corner but fighting for her life. Now, at least, she had a life worth fighting for. Whether she lived to keep that life was entirely in the hands of...whoever decided their fates. If anyone. 

 

Night was falling fast, the cold winds growing stronger and almost painful with each blow. She’d heard whispers around that the army of the dead had slaughtered what was left of House Umber and were now fast on the heels of Winterfell. It wouldn’t be long now. As such, it was of very high importance that she locate Sandor and endeavor to spend some amount of time with him, however much they had left. 

 

Between the harsh wind, billowing snow, growing darkness and everyone scurrying about, that was easier said than done. She elected to dive in for a moment to a nearby room, warm herself against the fire long enough to go back out and try again. 

 

The room she chose, however, was not unoccupied. Standing there, assembling her armor, was the flame-haired Alys Karstark herself. 

 

“Oh…! Sorry, do come in,” she bid Vevynne. “It’s rather difficult to arm oneself, isn’t it? Come, there’s more than enough fire for both of us.” 

 

The Lady Karstark’s kindness was not enough to quell the determination that began to rise up inside her again. Where most may have seen a pleasant young woman Vevynne saw only the remains of the House that had taken her brothers from her, the last vestige that needed to be ripped out to end their name forever. 

 

She couldn’t remember in this moment the words she’d said to Sandor, the advice given to her from her Queen. She knew only blood lust and a drive to destroy. It would be  _ justice _ , she told herself. Martyn and Willem deserved that much. 

 

Her hand secretly found the hilt of her dagger beneath her cloak. 

 

“I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” Vevynne said, feigning pleasantry. “I am the Lady Clegane. Prior to my marriage, however, I was a  _ Lannister _ .” 

 

Alys’ face fell in apparent realization. “I-...I am the-” 

 

“Oh but I know who  _ you _ are.” 

 

Vevynne stepped closer, eyes trained on Alys. 

 

“Until very recently I was under the impression it was Robb Stark that ordered the murder of my child brothers,” she explained. “Did you know of them? Martyn and Willem. They were boys. They were  _ innocent _ .” 

 

“I-...I claim no part in my family’s sins,” Alys countered, visibly afraid. “I had no say, Lady Clegane, I was only a girl when they were-” 

 

“And they were only boys. You tell  _ me _ , Lady Karstark, which would be more unjust- the slaying of hapless children in a misplaced need for vengeance? Or the purge of the House that would exact such a slaughter?” 

 

Alys attempted a move towards the door, but Vevynne grabbed and pulled the girl to her, positioning the dagger beneath her neck. 

 

“How did it happen?” she demanded in a harsh whisper against Alys’ ear. “How did they kill them?  _ Tell me! _ ”  

 

When she pushed the dagger’s blade harder into Alys’ neck she could only manage out a broken, “I-...I do not know, my Lady, I swear it!” 

 

“I would’ve killed you the same way as they had been...but I suppose it doesn’t matter, as long you’re dead.” 

 

Alys scrambled against her grip, managing struggled, whispered pleas not to do this,  _ please don’t do this _ , and as Vevynne could only hear her brother’s voices pleading for the same she knew there was no alternative but to slice the Karstark girl’s neck. 

 

She might have done, if there wasn’t the tiniest, but sharpest sensation suddenly pressing into her back...almost as a needle might. 

 

“ _ Don’t _ ,” said a level, familiar voice from behind her. “I’m not supposed to kill you. I don’t want to kill you.” 

 

She turned in disbelief, wondering if her eyes were betraying her. Against all odds there stood Arya, now as much of a hardened, chiseled woman as her sister. It was she who pressed the blade, the same that Vevynne had seen her water dance with lifetimes ago. The look in her eyes said that it was best if Vevynne followed her command- she didn’t want to kill her, perhaps, but she _ would  _ if needs must. 

 

Vevynne released Alys as she did an odd gasp of relief. Arya took hold of the Karstark girl’s arm before she could escape into the courtyard. 

 

“A girl about to face down death should not look so frightened by it,” she advised, as cool and calm as a cat. “Go- and speak nothing of this.” 

 

Arya commanded such a power to herself now that no other warning needed to be given, Alys was keen to obey. 

 

Vevynne realized at some point she must have collapsed down to her knees, though in a sense of failure, frustration, or a subconscious relief that she would not have to disobey herself, her Queen, it was hard to say. Arya had her back on her feet before she could contemplate it. 

 

“How did you-” Vevynne attempted to ask, but Arya had anticipated the question. 

 

“I have a nose for haphazard murder attempts.” She took the blade from Vevynne’s hand and tucked it back in the sheath on her belt. “There’s no point to killing anyone now. We’re  _ all _ going to die.” 

 

Vevynne scoffed out a laugh because, what else could she  _ do _ really? 

 

“I’ve missed you,” she admitted. 

 

Arya’s firm stare didn’t waver. “I forgot you existed for a time. That was certainly  _ one _ way to jog my memory.” 

* * *

  
  


They were in each other’s company then, as perhaps Arya felt Vevynne needed an escort in her unstable state of mind. She couldn’t say that was a misplaced concern; perhaps she  _ did _ . She’d also confessed to Arya she’d originally been looking for Sandor, to which the other woman promised she’d help her find him. Vevynne didn’t ask what Arya had been through since their paths diverged, though this cold, calculating, seeker-like nature of her made her wonder. 

 

Evidently Sandor had been looking for her as well, as when they finally found him he was stomping along the ramparts, deep in frustration. 

 

“Misplaced something?” Arya asked slyly, just before Sandor had Vevynne in his arms. 

 

“Where’ve you  _ been _ ?” he demanded to know, though his attempts at ferocity were betrayed by the weak desperation in his voice, his hands cradling her face. “The dead are gnashing their teeth for us as we speak.” 

 

Arya somehow slipped the flagon of wine from his belt while this was going on, had sat herself down against the stone wall. 

 

“You don’t want to know,” she supplied after having helped herself to a swig. 

 

Vevynne had hoped to keep the truth from him, even as she knew it was wrong, but Sandor could read the guilt in her eyes with or without Arya’s assistance. 

 

“I...nearly did something very foolish,” she confessed, though even here and now it was still hard to believe it deserved to be called that. “I will explain later.” 

 

He might have pressed her to explain  _ now _ , but Beric fucking Dondarrion strode out of some dark corner just then interrupting whatever privacy they had left. 

 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Sandor sighed, releasing her to go join Arya in a frustrated slump. “May as well be at a bloody wedding.” 

 

Beric grinned, swept his cloak to the side to have a seat across from them. “Yes, well, we failed to warrant an invitation to  _ yours _ . May as well replicate the festivities now.” 

 

“Of course,” Vevynne agreed, sarcastic. “After all, what else is there left to do but wait patiently for death?” 

 

She had turned to face the endless dark expanse that spread out before Winterfell, watching for the tiniest indication that eternity had arrived. 

 

“Lady Clegane,” Beric greeted, but she did not bother to turn to him. “Surely  _ you _ hold no ill-will towards me? The last we saw of each other, I had honored your terms to set you free.” 

 

“Was that before or  _ after _ I was seized like a prize captive, nearly suffocated in burlap, and forced to argue my right for freedom against your so-called  _ Lord of Light _ ? I can’t seem to remember now, my memory fails me.” 

 

Sandor then scoffed, “You’ll find no warm reception here, Dondarrion.” 

 

That was certainly the truth, as between Arya and Sandor’s collective glare and Vevynne’s refusal to deal with him he had perhaps not been very wise in choosing a spot to wait out the inevitable. 

 

“That’s alright,” he assured, as if it was his place to decide what was ‘alright’ about this situation and what wasn’t. “The Lord of Light has brought us together all the same. This is  _ his _ moment. When Light-” 

 

Much to her relief, Sandor cut him off. “Thoros isn’t here anymore, so I hope you’re not about to give a sermon. Because if you are, the Lord of Light’s going to wonder why he brought you back 19 times just to watch you die when I chuck you over this fucking wall.” 

 

Beric took no offense to this, however, evidently charmed by Sandor’s gruff nature. It went a bit of the way towards an explanation as to how he and the Brotherhood could’ve stood each other so long. 

 

Arya took her leave then, with the excuse that she didn’t plan to spend her final hours with two ‘miserable old shits’ and to Vevynne she simply said, “I don’t know you stand him.” 

 

“I don’t either,” Sandor agreed to no one but himself, taking a final swig from the flagon before passing it over to Beric, then rising to his feet. 

 

The fact that Beric was here was reason enough for them to take their leave, but when their eyes met it was clear there were more pressing things to discuss. Whether it would matter in the end remained to be seen. 

* * *

  
  


“I almost killed her- Lady Karstark. I nearly took a blade to her neck.” 

 

She had already explained the whole of it to him, the mistaken identity of the murderers, the need to rip out what was left of the House that had done it. 

 

“I regret that I wasn’t able,” she confessed. “And yet, that is a sin in and of itself. Have I not lectured you against the very same thing? Have I not been told by my Queen that it is foolish? Surely she would denounce me if she knew.” 

 

“ _ I _ won’t denounce you,” Sandor assured. “If only because that would make me as much of a hypocrite.” 

 

“You think me a hypocrite then?” Though she would have rathered he didn’t, she couldn’t say it was undeserved. 

 

He sat down beside her on the bed. “In the purest definition. It doesn’t mean I think less of you. I’ve said it before; rage is a driving force and difficult to put aside.” 

 

Warring with herself now, difficult to processes the conflicting sentiments and thoughts that raced through her mind. She had to consider that perhaps it was no great strength of character that made her momentarily set aside her rage, but rather a deceptive peace with the fact that the mistaken murderer of her brothers had gotten his due, that Cersei would meet with a similar fate when faced with everyone she had wronged. 

 

“You don’t want it for me because you don’t want me to die,” Sandor explained and it, of course, made perfect sense- there was, in some measure, a sense of selfishness for his well being. “There is no shame in that, but it doesn’t negate who I am and what must be done.” 

 

“I meant what I said,” she pressed. “There is nothing to be gained from killing a man who is already dead, particularly when that man may kill you in the process. There is so much more we might do together.” 

There were no answers to be found in this moment, try as they might to search for them, as the futility of it all weighed heavy as well. All the planning and discussion that was done of what would happen  _ after _ seemed so useless in the end. They had to believe, of course, that there would be one, enough to convince them the fighting and death would not be in vain, but in their hearts the difficult truth prevailed. 

 

“We are together  _ now _ ,” he said finally, pulling her to him. Her arms found their way around his shoulders. “Here, at the end of all things.” 

 

“I need not ask, nor expect more,” she agreed. “To be here with you, in this moment as your wedded wife, is more than I would’ve ever expected possible.” 

 

There was no more use for words after that, only desperate embraces and the haphazard discarding of clothes. They needed only to lose themselves in one another, access a world in which the only thing that existed was the collective warmth of their bodies, their breaths intermingled in the small space between them. 


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She clung to little Sam, held Gilly to her chest, and prepared for whatever oblivion had in store for her, thankful for the bit of happiness she’d enjoyed in what had remained of her time alive."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOKAY, once again, apologies for the wait, work continues to kick my ass. So this is sort of part 1 of The Battle of Winterfell and here is where you'll see a lot of things begin to differ from the canon plot in season 8. Some of these concepts I thought of myself, some of them were borrowed from other fanon ideas of what might have happened and there's a lot of people to credit, which I'll endeavor to do at the end of this fic (once I get a collection of names of folks I KNOW inspired me haha, some of it is kind of subconscious I guess). Another pairing begins to emerge in this chapter as well. Not sure if everyone is into this one but OH WELL, it's one of my OTPs so yknow, scroll past or w/e if it's not your thing. Idk, I think that's about all I need (or can) warn/talk about thus far. So, as ever, enjoy! I hope!

Bidding goodbye was more difficult than either of them anticipated. While the reality of what would befall them had always existed in some measure, now the hour approached for them to face it and live- or, more likely, die. 

 

“I’ll see you on the other side, my love,” she told him, and they shared a kiss before he was gone to join the rest of the ranks. She couldn’t watch him go, tempting as it would’ve been to betray her Queen’s wish and stand with him, knowing it would very well be the last time she’d see him depart. 

 

Putting those thoughts aside, difficult though that was, she proceeded forward with her main duty of helping lead the women, children and otherwise helpless to the main hall. It had been fortified for the sake of their safety to the best of Winterfell’s ability, though whether or not it might hold against whatever came for them she could not say. 

 

She had to also ignore and look away from the countless eyes of children that sat in wide-eyed fear with their mothers. There would be time enough later to contemplate what might happen to them, to feel the sinking, albeit premature grief of when they would fall to the Wights. She would suffer it all, once everyone was comfortable and had food in their belly. 

 

“I can help with that,” a young woman offered when Vevynne found herself overwhelmed with serving the stew on her lonesome. She smiled in gratitude. “Or, rather... _ we _ can help.” 

 

She referred to her small boy, still practically a baby, though he could walk and express enough to stand near her and hold on to his mother’s leg. His was such a young age he didn’t seem to realize the particulars of the situation they were in, and in his smile Vevynne found both a comfort and sadness. 

 

“Gilly,” The young woman introduced herself. “I fear we may be down here for some time- best to get acquainted, yes?” 

 

Vevynne nodded in agreement. “I’m the Lady Clegane-...but  _ Vevynne _ is more than sufficient.” 

 

“This is my son, Sam,” Gilly said, petting the young boy’s blonde curls. He reminded her very much of her brothers at that age. 

 

“He’s beautiful,” Vevynne replied. “Named for his father?” 

 

“He is, a matter of fact. Sam Tarly- do you know him?” 

 

Vevynne paused a moment in her reply as she continued to dole out bowls to the line of hungry mouths. 

 

“I...know of his family,” she settled upon, electing to not bring up mention of Dickon. Surely Sam Tarly, who she had yet to meet, had to be aware of what had happened to his family members...but knowing full-well how such a death could impact one’s thinking, she thought it best to leave it alone for the time being. 

 

Gilly, however, didn’t seem to share the sentiment. Then again, how could she? 

 

“It was horrible what happened to his father and brother,” she lamented, serving a few bowls herself. “I wasn’t very fond of Sam’s father, but Dickon...he was always very kind.” 

 

Vevynne wet her lips, uncomfortable. “Yes. I was devastated when I heard, they...they were close friends of mine and my father.” 

 

Gilly seemed to notice the Targaryen pin she still wore on the straps of her cloak, just on the other side of the new Clegane sigil.

 

“Yet, you are...loyal to the Dragon Queen...?” Less an observation, more of a challenging question.

 

Vevynne didn’t know how to explain the rationalization of their deaths in a way that would make sense for light, polite conversation. She didn’t know if there was any she could give that would make sense to Sam Tarly’s presumed wife. 

 

“Yes...in fact, it’s all rather complicated. Perhaps when we’ve finished I could explain better?” 

 

Gilly didn’t seem overly convinced she  _ could _ explain and, in truth, neither was Vevynne.  Nevertheless they still sat together when all had been served. Gilly let Vevynne hold little Sam in her lap and pet his golden curls- he had taken to her, at the very least. In her mind, his was the only opinion that truly mattered. 

 

But for as happy as it made her to hold such a wonderful child, so too did it bring her to the verge of tears. 

 

“You’re crying,” Gilly observed. “You mustn’t show fear, Vevynne, not where they can see…” 

 

She referred to the women and children under their care and Vevynne knew she was right. 

 

“It’s not fear that brings me tears,” she explained, wiping them away with the cuff of her sleeve nevertheless. “Your son reminds me very much of my younger brothers. I was more often a mother to them than a sister, you understand.” 

 

“I understand,” Gilly said with a sympathetic smile. “I grew up in a very similar situation. Sisters and mothers...there wasn’t much of a difference among us.” 

“Where did you come from, if I may ask?” Though this question was posited more towards little Sam’s lovely, chubby little fist as he wrapped it around her fingers. 

 

“I...I was one of the Freefolk,” she explained, though was visibly hesitant to do so. “I used to be afraid of admitting that. Now we stand here with leagues of them. I suppose it doesn’t matter much anymore.” 

 

Vevynne hadn’t known any wildlings to this point, though the picture that had been painted for her in the Keep of them as inhuman animals didn’t seem to fit the gentle family that was Gilly and her son. Another lie constructed by wealth and distance, she supposed. 

 

“How did you meet the Tarlys?” she asked, though, again, little Sam had more or less interrupted her train of thought by finding interesting toys in the braids that fell down her shoulders. 

 

“Sam rescued me,” Gilly said with a subtle, delighted grin. “I don’t think my particular situation was typical to most of the Freefolk. I was glad to be free, in any case.” 

 

“Then...you know what it means to feel trapped?”

 

In this, she saw an opening to help Gilly understand- at the very least to see from where her loyalties were born. 

 

“Yes…?” 

 

“I was trapped too,” Vevynne said. “Different circumstances, perhaps, but trapped all the same. My Queen rescued me, and so I owe her my life. She  _ is _ the breaker of chains, and so she offered to break those of Dickon and his father.” 

 

“It’s not much of a choice,” Gilly argued. “Loyalty or death.” 

 

“And what choice did they offer her?” Vevynne pressed. “None.  _ Only _ death. My Queen is merciful beyond reason, but she can only yield so much to those that would take everything from her.”

 

Gilly said nothing more about it. Vevynne was certain she hadn’t convinced the other woman so much as she had created an uncomfortable situation in what was already a frightening one, but if nothing else, perhaps she had given her something to contemplate. 

 

The reminder of the immediate threat came in the billowing howl of the wind, blowing through a crack in the Hall’s fortification. In this they heard the distant, but ever present inhuman growls of the approaching dead. 

 

It drew the entire Hall to a sudden, fearful silence.

 

* * *

 

 

Sometime later, when the illusion of comfort was regained in the Hall and she and Gilly’s paths had parted so as to check on everyone individually, Vevynne’s drew her to Lord Varys. He sat in a corner, looking as though he were simply awaiting a message or some such thing, utterly unaffected by whatever horror was unfolding outside the walls. 

 

“Is there anything I can  _ get _ for you, Lord Varys?” she asked, though her tone suggested she would do no such thing, frustrated with him as she was. 

 

He sighed, low and long. “Oh, some _ perspective  _ perhaps, if it isn’t too much trouble. I find myself sorely lacking.” 

 

She sat down beside him, in need of answers and figuring it was as good a time as any to demand them. 

 

“Is _ that _ why you saw fit to tell me the truth of the Karstarks?” she snapped. “I needn’t have known. I had made peace with what I believed to be true.”

 

“You weren’t grateful for the opportunity to exact justice?” he asked, looking over at her. “A rather easy one, too, considering all that stands of House Karstark is one young girl.” 

 

“I found myself on the verge of slicing said young girl’s neck. I would have done. I would have betrayed my Queen, my husband, all that I’ve promised to stand for.” 

 

“And that would have been  _ your _ choice,” he countered matter-of-factly. “I merely provided the information to do with as you will. Consider it payment made for all the information you fed to  _ me _ .” 

 

Tiring of the smoke and mirrors she pushed closer to him. “I want to know  _ why _ you told me. You and I know both know I’m not ignorant enough to believe it was a well-meaning gesture to even the score.”

 

Lord Varys smirked. “I wanted to know the true strength of your character. If faced with this knowledge, what would you do? Would you pursue the path of impulse and revenge, or would you consider what was best for the realm? Lady Karstark stands guard over the Three Eyed Raven in the Godswood. Surely our Queen told you.” 

 

“It was a  _ test _ then,” she sighed, exasperated, leaning up against the stone wall behind her. “One I did not ask for. Presumably, I failed?” 

 

“Not entirely,” he corrected. “One possesses the capacity for change. If you are to do what  _ we _ do, you will have to change. You will have to learn to be lead by wits rather than heart.” 

 

“I don’t want to do what  _ you _ do. I’ve told you that.” 

 

Lord Varys huffed out a laugh. “It is your weapon. And make no mistake, if by some unlikely twist of fate, we are victorious against the Night King, you  _ will _ have to wield it again. It is best you learn how.” 

 

She had no argument to make to this, Varys was much smarter and more insightful than she. Even so, she no more wanted to believe what he vowed to be true, so she excused herself with the explanation that she had to go check on the others. It wasn’t entirely untrue, but any reason would’ve been sufficient to distance herself from him. 

 

It was as she had resumed her rounds that another joined them in the Hall, followed by a slamming and a click of the Hall doors. Lady Sansa stood before them, and everyone fell into a hushed silence, either out of respect for her presence or surprise or a bit of both in equal measure. Vevynne spied Tyrion staring long at their new addition before taking another swig from his flagon of wine and sulking off somewhere else. He hadn’t been speaking much to her since her public denouncement of Jaime, something she’d have to endeavor to rectify before they died. 

 

“My Lady,” Vevynne greeted her. “Is there anything I can get for you? We have a pot of stew over the-”

 

“No. Thank you, Lady Clegane. I find I haven’t much of an appetite at the moment.” 

 

Vevynne found her a seat and requested that she sit with her for a moment- in truth, more eager to hear an updated report of what was going on outside than to serve her Ladyship. 

 

“The Dothraki were overtaken completely,” Sansa explained in a hushed voice so that only they two could hear. “There wasn’t much left but a smattering of horses. The dead number in the thousands...and they are upon us.  _ Waves _ of them.” 

 

“Sandor…?” Vevynne asked, almost a plea. Perhaps it wasn’t an answer she wanted to hear, but she had to know. 

 

“He lives, the last I saw of him,” Sansa assured, though quickly amended, “For how much longer I cannot say. We are being overwhelmed.” 

 

Vevynne appreciated the honesty, however harsh it might have been, and thanked her. When she’d ascertained there was nothing else she could offer her, she made to leave to return to her duties...in some respect, so that she would not have to think on what he was enduring out there. 

 

She caught Tyrion’s gaze once more before she left, once again devoted to the Lady Sansa. He looked away when he realized Vevynne had seen. 

* * *

 

“If we were up there,” Tyrion mused, staring longingly at the locked door of the Hall. “We might see something everyone else is missing. Something that makes a difference.” 

 

Varys audibly scoffed, but Vevynne couldn’t help but find truth in it. Everyone cowering in the hall- him, Sansa, Varys, Missandei, herself - were all left to do so because their weapons were forged of wit rather than steel and it had been long ago decided this was a battle of the latter. She had been certain it was...up until the moment that the screams and inhuman shrieks had grown louder outside and the certainty of defeat seemed to be drawing in closer. 

 

“ _ What? _ ” Tyrion demanded to know, rounding on Varys. “Remember the Battle of Blackwater? I brought us through the Mud Gate.” 

 

“And got your face cut in half,” Varys supplied without skipping a beat. 

 

“And it made a  _ difference _ ,” Tyrion’s eyes once again briefly drifted in Sansa’s direction. “If I was out there right now-”

 

“You’d die.” It was Lady Sansa interrupting him this time, her tone, as ever, curt and matter-of-fact. “There’s nothing you can do.” 

 

Unlike with Lord Varys, Vevynne couldn’t help but notice how her cousin softened at her, despite Sansa having delivered the exact same sentiment in the same sharp manner. He tossed away his empty flagon (he must have been on his third or fourth by now, she noted, but didn’t seem to be displaying any ill effects yet) to grab another before approaching the disagreeing party. 

 

Vevynne also didn’t neglect to notice that, for the first time since seeing her in Winterfell, Lady Sansa’s normally straight mouth had curved into a genuine smile. 

 

“You might be surprised at the lengths I’d go to avoid joining the army of the dead. I can think of no organization less suited to my talents.”

 

“Witty remarks won’t make a difference,” Sansa quipped. “That’s why we’re down here. None of us can do anything. It’s the truth. It’s the most heroic thing we can do now; look the truth in the face.” 

 

Vevynne looked to Varys, more subconsciously than otherwise, but nonetheless to seek some confirmation of this in his eyes. It had seemed fair and just to accept uselessness before the roars of death and defeat were all around them, but now it was just as frustrating as Tyrion made it out to be. Varys returned her gaze, in apparent agreement with what Lady Sansa had said.  

 

So they were to sit here, at the mercy of whatever fate the Lord of Light or the Seven or whoever felt they deserved? She didn’t want to accept it anymore than her cousin. Perhaps that was a Lannister trait, that foolhardy stubbornness. 

 

“Maybe we should have stayed married.” 

 

Tyrion had undoubtedly said this so only Lady Sansa could hear, but ears that were accustomed to listening to hushed conversation picked up quickly. Vevynne noted the the air of wistfulness in his voice. 

 

“You were the best of them,” Sansa said, her voice having softened just as much. 

 

“What a  _ terrifying _ thought!” Tyrion replied, incredulous. 

 

Vevynne watched them both now, as inconspicuous as she knew how. She could see only Sansa’s face clearly from where she sat, noticed how she eyed Tyrion in regretful contemplation and parted her lips. 

 

“It wouldn’t work between us,” she told him.

 

“...why not?” 

 

“The Dragon Queen. Your divided loyalties would become a problem.” 

 

Another voiced joined the conversation now, someone who seemed to have been listening just as intently. It stood to reason, as they were all, in some measure, players of the game and skilled at knowing when a strategic exchange was taking place. 

 

“Yes,” Missandei agreed, sarcastic. “ _ Without _ the Dragon Queen there’d be no problem at all. We’d all be dead already.” 

 

Disgusted with what had been said and unable to hear anymore, she stormed off to a different side of the Hall. Vevynne couldn’t blame her. Missandei was right, after all, and she shared in that frustration of blaming Daenerys for being the roadblock to personal end goals. All the same, Vevynne was sympathetic to her cousin and Lady Sansa and perhaps understood what they meant too, even if it was lacking perspective. 

 

Without anything left to debate and perhaps feeling cowed by Missandei’s curt reminder, Tyrion moved back to his own private corner. Vevynne knew he was not keen to speak to her, but she relocated to his side nonetheless. 

 

“I didn’t realize you both had been married,” she said after ensuring he would not ask her to leave. 

 

“Yes, you were long gone by then. A marriage of inconvenience, thrust upon us by my father. It came to a rather abrupt end upon Joffrey’s poisoning.” 

 

She would request further details later, not particularly interested in who was responsible for said death. She wouldn’t have condemned anyone for having done it- it was a service to Westeros that it happened at all. If anything, the perpetrator should have been lauded a hero, given a knighthood and land. 

 

“And now?” she pressed. “You seem to regret that it ended at all.” 

 

Tyrion sighed, offered her the flagon and she took it as a sign of good will. 

 

“She was but a child then,” he said. “I felt for her that she was doomed to marrying the Lannister imp. Perhaps more so now that I should be the ‘best’ of those who came after.” 

 

“She is not a child anymore,” Vevynne felt compelled to point out. “A woman now, in every sense of the word.” 

 

“I haven’t failed to notice,” he assured. “A woman broken and regrown into a pillar of strength. I have always admired her.” 

 

“Is that  _ all _ you can claim to feel for her? There is nothing more?” 

 

He looked to her with a tired sort of smile, as they both knew the truth. 

 

“If there was, it would be important only to myself.” Having received the flagon from her once again, he corked it with a sense of finality. “No. I would not resign her to that fate again. What I feel is of no importance.” 

 

Vevynne rolled her eyes, reminded so keenly of Sandor’s concern for doing the same to her. “How like a man. You take away a woman’s agency and assume you are respecting her for doing so.” 

 

Tyrion looked to her again, similar to how he had when she denounced Jaime- hurt, shocked, and confused. 

 

“And what of  _ her _ feelings?” she explained. “Did it never occur to you to ask?” 

 

He laughed at this, as boisterously as he seemed to think safe for the location and context. 

 

“You think I should ask what her feelings are regarding the deformed Lannister she was once  _ forced _ to marry as a young girl? Yes, a great mystery, that.” 

 

“At the very least, cousin,” she said, standing up as she was rather tiring of the conversation and...after all, perhaps none of it would matter anyway. “I do not think you should close the book on it just yet.” 

* * *

  
  


The hour must have grown very late, but no one dared sleep. How could they? The sounds of battle only became louder as time wore on, shrieks both human and not-so intermingling in the muffled cacophony outside. Though they hadn’t any kind of window into what was transpiring, it was certainly clear that the forces hadn’t been able to keep the numbers back. The dead had infiltrated Winterfell now, and though Vevynne could hear the sounds of dragon cries in the mix as well, they didn’t seem to be making much of a difference either. 

 

Things became especially dire when the guards tasked with keeping watch outside the Hall’s door began pounding on the wood, begging to be let in and spared. No one would move for fear that even a small crack could allow in a flood of Wights. They had no choice but to listen as the guards were torn to shreds, their cries growing dim, then to nothing. 

 

Sansa, Missandei, Tyrion, Vevynne and Varys found themselves gravitating to one another, something of a makeshift, impromptu counsel. 

 

“We will have to formulate a plan,” Tyrion said, decisive. “We cannot remain stationary and allow innocents to be cornered.” 

 

“If we lead them outside the Hall now we will most certainly lose a few- if not  _ many _ ,” Missandei mentioned. “Is that a risk worth taking when the Hall is still holding?” 

 

“On the other hand,” Varys said. “If we depart with them now we may lose less if we were to bide our time until the dead are upon us, breaking down both doors. We stay, we run the risk of being trapped.” 

 

Vevynne interjected, “But where would we _ go _ ? If the dead surround Winterfell, which I would wager they most certainly do, there is no place I can think of to run.” 

 

“That is not entirely true.” Sansa, this time, having waited to hear all the opinions before giving hers. Perhaps no one present really knew why, but they all baited their breath to see how she’d weigh their situation. “There is a tunnel system beneath Winterfell. The  _ crypts _ . They may lead us to a place untouched by the undead army.” 

 

“The...crypts, my lady?” Missandei echoed, very dubious of this suggestion and she needn’t clarify why. 

 

“I realize it is a gamble,” Sansa conceded. “There is every potential that if the dead have risen on the battlefield, so to have they down below. Those of us who can wield a weapon will form a protective barrier around the innocent and we will do our best. It is still far less dangerous than the carnage that surrounds us.” 

 

Vevynne eyed the crowd of women and children that were packed into the hall, all of them wide-eyed, lost, and uncertain. She saw the streak of panic in the mothers’ eyes, even as they comforted their children and assured them all would be fine. 

 

“We cannot resign them to death,” she agreed. “We must try.” 

 

Gradually every member of the small group bowed and nodded their heads in agreement with Sansa’s plan. It was not ideal, not in the least, but what about  _ any _ of this was? 

 

“We are with you, my Lady,” Tyrion acquiesced, speaking for all of them. She nodded to him in kind. 

 

She then gave the whole of them instructions for rounding up the thick of the crowd, keeping them contained, and leading them to the entrance of the tunnel. This they all prepared to do, knowing their orders and placement, where and when to open the doors and make the best of their situation and route. 

 

It threw rather a large wrench in the works, then, that a sudden, loud crash hit the side of the Hall, like an explosion of Wildfire. Stone and debris went flying and falling like boulders down a mountainside. The cause of this was soon revealed; Daenerys and Drogon, having intentionally blown a hole into the side. Whether she was conscious of their plan or not, they could not say, but she instructed them much the same as their Lady Sansa. 

 

“You must move,  _ now _ !” 

 

The source of his urgency was noted in how the Hall doors began to buckle and press open from the weight of Wights trying to gain entry. It was thanks to her Queen’s insightfulness that they now had a protective barrier in Drogon, blasting any offensive line of Wights with a firestorm, buying them time enough to slip past. 

 

Vevynne and Sansa’s eyes found each other, remembering in some unspoken connection that night beneath the Keep, when the Blackwater was set aflame. The suggestion between them went unspoken;  _ shall we sing a hymn?  _

 

As they mobilized, grouped and lead everyone as quickly out of the Hall as they could, they lead them too in song of  _ Mother’s Mercy _ . 

 

Deftly they continued the song, even as they stepped out into what could only be described as hell on earth. Though fires blazed in what seemed like every inch of Winterfell, the Wights swarmed like clouds of locusts. For every undead that received the fell of a sword, two or three more would launch themselves forward in its place. Vevynne felt a hand fall into hers, looked over to see that it was Gilly, reaching for some sense of support as she cradled little Sam with the other arm. 

 

“Don’t look,” Vevynne coaxed. “Focus only on your Queen.” 

 

She found herself a bit shocked when that fell out of her mouth, to refer to Lady Sansa as such when she had done no such thing to anyone but Daenerys...but then again, perhaps she was that. Perhaps Sansa  _ was _ Gilly’s Queen and that of everyone who lived in the North. 

 

She certainly seemed so now, leading the whole of them at the front, fearless with naught but a torch and dragonglass dagger to fend of the stray Wight. 

 

Though she had instructed another to keep her eyes forward, Vevynne couldn’t help but scan the chaos for sight of Sandor. It was no use, of course, as she was unable to make out any familiar shape among the heaps and heaps of bloodthirsty corpses. 

 

Was he one of  _ them _ now? 

 

She could only hope he’d been spared, focus on Lady Sansa as she led them to the opening of the crypt.

 

* * *

  
  


The dark tunnels were eerily quiet, dark and cold and damp, but still a welcome reprieve from the chaos that they had just managed their way through. It was a thing of mercy that the entrance was so close to the Hall, that Daenerys had provided a barrier for them- they were still a collected whole, one that had been encouraged to be silent as they began their journey to the exit. No one knew if there might be corpses lurking below here, after all. 

 

As this was a group armed with little more than children and infants, keeping quiet was easier said than done. The mothers did their best, but even little Sam seemed to be finally catching on to the fear and hopelessness of their situation and the children inevitably began fussing. 

 

“Your arms must be tired,” Vevynne said to Gilly, who still kept to her side. “I can hold Sam for a while, if you don’t mind it.” 

 

Gilly was grateful for the break, even as she was loathe to let Sam go from her arms. Vevynne resolved, therefore, to stay close so that she would know he was safe with another. The change in person seemed to help Sam’s temper, as Vevynne had learned sometimes worked with little ones. She whispered a song into his ear and gently patted his back as he fell into a lull on her shoulder. 

 

“It seems wrong there’s nothing down here,” Gilly said, to which Vevynne agreed. 

 

“I’m not confident there isn’t. We must keep a sharp eye.” 

 

That deduction was an accurate one, as it then they heard a shuffling sound, some distance away from the thick of the group. Sansa and Tyrion motioned for the group to fall as silent as they could and remain still. Vevynne continued to hum the lullaby in Sam’s ear, at the softest whisper, doing her best to keep the onset of panic from tinting her voice. 

 

They all stood there for a time in quieted fear, gathered in a collective hope that the sound would move elsewhere and dissipate, but it only grew. Closer and closer, the shambling continued, sounding as if the beholder wore a collection of armored metal. 

 

The sound increased until a shape was visible before them. Even in the dark it appeared to be that of a man’s, but everyone seemed to know it most certainly wasn’t  _ that _ . Dragonglass daggers were discreetly drawn. Sansa lifted her torch. 

 

The figure became more apparent as it moved into the light, and though everyone present was prepared to see something horrifying there was no preparation, no precedent for the sight that would meet them. 

 

Movement by movement, shamble by shamble, the warped, decayed, barely held together shape of Ned Stark moved into the light. His head, which must have been sewn back to his body before burial, had begun to rot and fall from his shoulders. It swung to the side at an unnatural angle, as did the rest of his limbs, but not so much that they couldn’t see the bright glow of ice blue eyes. 

 

Even at the back of the group Vevynne could hear Sansa’s sharp inhale. 

 

The corpse stopped moving, everyone held their breath, and a terrible moment passed in which nothing happened but staring and wondering if this was their true reality; the rotting corpse of Ned Stark staring them down, all the more terrible in the wonder that any of his humanity remained to recognize his daughter. 

 

That concern was quickly put to rest when a sound that combined a death rattle and a growl emerged from his sunken chest and he launched towards them. Vevynne saw Tyrion push Sansa back, just as the group panicked and followed her movements in retreating. This would be all for naught, as there was a scream then and Vevynne turned to see the corpse of who was most definitely Catelyn Stark, having taken a woman into her grasp. 

 

Ever so slowly they were being surrounded by the departed Starks, long dead family members that had risen from their tombs and now lurched towards them with bony arms outstretched, teeth gnashing. Even with the few of them that had been gifted dragonglass daggers, Vevynne wasn’t certain they could take them all and the identity of  _ these _ particular Wights made it hard for anyone to get their bearings. 

 

She clung to little Sam, held Gilly to her chest, and prepared for whatever oblivion had in store for her, thankful for the bit of happiness she’d enjoyed in what had remained of her time alive. 

 

However, perhaps the Lord of Light or  _ whoever _ wasn’t quite done with any of them yet, as the unthinkable (even more than their current position) happened. Without any warning a massive dragonglass axe launched itself into the back of Stark corpse, slicing it clean in two. Then another, and another. 

 

A small, dark form, barely distinguishable from the darkness of the crypt, whirled past them and in front of Sansa, standing between her and the decaying Ned. Vevynne only knew it was Arya when she heard the teary-eyed, “I’m sorry, father…” followed by a quick stab to his abdomen with a dragonglass dagger. 

 

Ned Stark fell to his knees, then the ground, and finally his eyes closed, never to open again. 

 

She then turned to see that the other assailant was none other than her husband, quietly and respectfully doing the same to Catelyn Stark, laying her down on the earth when the job was done. She gave little Sam back to his mother and ran to him. 

  
  
  



End file.
